


Doubt Thou The Stars Are Fire

by QueenOfTheDreamers (QueenOfDreamers)



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 19:13:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16102022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfDreamers/pseuds/QueenOfTheDreamers
Summary: Eleanor Simon comes from just the right kind of money. Eleanor Simon is a perfectly capable staffer. Eleanor Simon is just a pawn on a chess board. Isn't she? Doug Stamper isn't so sure anymore. Complete.





	Doubt Thou The Stars Are Fire

_Washington, D.C._

_2011_

* * *

Doug Stamper pulled the pen cap he'd been chewing from between his lips and drummed it upon the desk before him. He was on the phone with Congressman Bob Birch, arranging a meeting between the Arizona representative and the House Majority Whip.

"I realize you're busy, but Mr. Underwood only has a few hours this afternoon -"

" _Well, does he want my vote, or doesn't he?"_  Bob Birch's voice was sharp on the other end of the phone. Doug Stamper put his lips into a flat line and sighed as Birch continued, " _I'm free from two until three today. If Frank is generous enough to grant me the honor of fifteen minutes of his valuable time during that window, I'll hear him out. Otherwise, Mr. Stamper, it's a 'no' vote from me tomorrow, I'm afraid. I support our troops as much as the next patriotic American, but a bill to allocate billions toward 'Veteran-owned small business' is just going to alienate non-Veteran small business owners in my district, and I've got a lot of them. Look, I'll save the bickering for Frank. Tell him to come to me sometime between two and three, and if he can't be bothered, then put me down as a 'no.'"_

"Thanks for your time, Mr. Birch." Doug set the receiver of the land line back into its cradle with a gentle click and put his forehead into his palms.

"So can Birch meet?" Doug heard a young, eager voice ask. He glanced up with tired eyes to see the spring intern from Georgetown yanking the cap off of a dry-erase marker. Doug sighed again and scrawled a short note down on a piece of scrap paper, noting Birch's limited availability and concerns about his specific Arizona district. Doug folded the note and handed it to the intern.

"Run that over to Mr. Underwood, would you, please?" he said. The intern snatched at the paper and dashed off, and Doug burrowed his head into his hands again. The antique wall-mounted clock, the one he very frequently contemplated smashing, chimed once and notified Doug that he'd now been awake for thirty-two hours. "I need some caffeine," he noted gruffly.

"Cream and sugar?" he heard someone ask. Doug frowned against his hands. This time, he hadn't recognized the voice. He glanced up to see yet another intern ( _how quickly it seemed their sentences ended and began again_ ) standing before him. This one was a female - a  _woman_ , Doug corrected himself - college-aged and slender and pretty. She had her long brown hair neatly pinned back into a rather severe chignon, and her get-up looked as though she might have tried too hard to look grown-up. Her lipstick was too dark, her off-the-rack skirt suit was altogether too modest for such a young woman, and her shoes had to have been ordered by a geriatric from a Sears catalog in 1982.

Doug panned his eyes up and down the poor girl's form and wondered what circumstances had brought such a pretty young woman to a cesspool like the Congressional offices. She was probably very intelligent, from an aspirational family that wanted 'the best' for her, and she'd come to Underwood's office from an elite school that she was attending on scholarship. His gaze lingered for a brief moment on her eyes - wide and dark and careful - and then he sat up straight and cleared his throat.

"You new?" he asked the girl brusquely. Doug Stamper, as Chief of Staff to Congressman Frank Underwood, made it his business to know precisely what was going on in the Majority Whip's office at all times. But he'd been so engrossed the past few days with the Veterans' Small Businesses bill that he hadn't bothered much with the fresh spring interns.

The corners of the young woman's pout curled up into a cynical little smile. Her cheap lipstick crackled where it needed a fresh coat, and she murmured gently,

"I've been here since the start of the session, Mr. Stamper. Almost a month."

"Oh. I'm sorry -" Doug began dismissively, but the young woman waved her hand and shook her head.

"I've been here," she repeated, "so I know just how busy you've been. I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to introduce myself. I was brought on as a policy advisor -"

Doug frowned. He was Chief of Staff in this office. He'd have thought he would know damned well when someone was 'brought on.'

"Who hired you, exactly?" Doug asked, tapping his pen cap upon the desk and trying to maintain a polite tone as his voice tightened. The young woman before him -  _what was her name again?_  - shifted on her feet and a defensive expression crossed her face.

"Congressman Underwood farmed me from the intern pool in the Senate. I helped draft some legislation on gold mine waste regulation during my internship for Senator Geld."

"The Kensington - Slate Lake Law." Doug nodded. It had been a well-written piece. The young woman before him nodded in affirmation, and Doug asked tentatively, "You worked on it?"

She hesitated, then said, "I wrote it."

Doug cocked an eyebrow and glanced around the office. "And now you're counting votes for the House Whip? And asking whether his Chief of Staff wants cream and sugar?"

She smiled and shrugged. "We all need to stay awake a few more hours if we're going to successfully whip on the Veterans' Small Business Bill, Mr. Stamper. And your cream and sugar preferences may well affect the efficacy of your coffee, so I'd like to make sure I'm as helpful as possible. As for the fact that I've been working on a dry-erase board for the past month… well." She shrugged again. "Success is a ladder, not a air raid."

Doug sat up a bit straighter in his chair. He had grossly underestimated the young woman before him. What was that old adage about books and covers? Maybe there was something to that one. So she had cheap lipstick, and a pedestrian  _pret-a-porter_ suit. So she had a whiff of over-enthusiasm about her. Those were all things that could and would be fixed with enough time on the Hill. But she was no idiot intern, and she was apparently permanent. If she'd drawn Frank Underwood's attention all the way from the bowels of the Senate intern horde, then Doug Stamper needed to locate and exploit her value.

"So," he heard her say, and he flicked his eyes up to meet hers. "Cream and sugar, Mr. Stamper?"

"Black." Doug shook his head. "Thank you."

The young woman nodded curtly and turned to go, and Doug furrowed his brows in confusion and called after her, "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," she said, whirling round on the heel of her frumpy black shoe. She continued slowly walking backward and pursed her lips as she said, "I'm Eleanor Simon, from Sitka, Alaska. It's an honor to be working for you, Mr. Stamper."

Doug quirked up a crooked smile.  _Alaska. That explains the lack of sophistication._  "Eleanor - like the Beatles song?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"Like the Roosevelt," she corrected him. "But everyone calls me 'Nell.' Even Mr. Underwood." She reached deftly behind herself and turned the doorknob and nodded again. "I'll be right back with your black coffee."

* * *

Doug stared at his iceberg lettuce and frowned. How had he become so engrossed in his own doings over the past month that he hadn't even noticed a new staff member? What did that say about the rest of his work for Underwood? If Frank had failed to discuss the hiring of a low-level staffer with Doug, what other, more important, conversations hadn't happened? Doug spooned potatoes into his mouth and slurped down some Diet Coke, trying to drown out the cacophony of the food court.

He pulled out his phone and clicked around a bit until he was ready to type a text message to Frank Underwood. He stared for a moment at the blinking cursor, wondering how to phrase the message.

_I met the intern you poached from Sen. Geld. - Eleanor Simon. She's good. Smart. Could help whip instead of just count._

Doug's fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, and then he realized that it was stupid to admit to Underwood he'd only just noticed a staff member who had been present for a month. The only way Doug could atone for his apparent recent lack of attention to his job would be to pay closer attention going forward. He hastily pushed the back button until all the letters were erased and the message was gone. He scowled and angrily stabbed his fork into his cheap salad. He splattered Italian dressing onto his tie in the process, cursing under his breath as he realized the oil would stain. He started to dab at his tie and huffed angrily when he saw that he was only making it worse.

"A little dab of dish soap will get that right out. Want me to go ask the Panda Express for some?"

Doug startled and glanced up to see  _her_  - Eleanor Simon - hovering above his little table. She held a cafeteria tray in her hands, upon which was perched a paper plate of MSG-laden 'stir fry' and a flavorless heap of steamed rice. Doug glanced at the clock, noticing that it was past eight, and wondered why she was still here.

"How is it that I managed not to notice you for the entire first month of your employment, and now you serve as the constant voice offering me coffee and dish soap?"

"Did you not enjoy that coffee earlier?" Eleanor asked rather snidely. She shifted on her feet and blew a disheveled lock of hair from her eyes. "I mean, I know it wasn't gourmet, but -"

"Do you need something, Ms. Simon?" Doug narrowed his eyes. He was suspicious, all of a sudden, of the young staffer. Why was she seeking his attention, apparently out of nowhere. As if to confirm his suspicions, Eleanor Simon glanced furtively around and licked her bottom lip.

"May I sit down, Mr. Stamper?" she asked quietly. Doug frowned and considered nodding to the opposite side of his table. Then he realized just how open and exposed the food court was, and he instead cleared his throat and leaned forward.

"Is this something that requires a discreet location to speak, Ms. Simon?"

"Ideally, yes." Eleanor whispered. Then, more audibly, she said, "I've also heard that baking soda or club soda work well for stains, but, you know, not for oil. You need dish soap. Or a change of tie."

Doug tried not to smile at how instinctively she practiced shrewd discretion. She'd be perfect for Underwood's office. He nodded once and muttered, "My car is in the garage - Black GMC. Virginia plate. DPE-2934. Meet me in twenty minutes. Eat your food first."

* * *

She wasn't late. She wasn't early. She was precisely on time, arriving at his car twenty minutes exactly after he'd walked briskly from the food court. She sidled up to the passenger side of his SUV and he'd pushed the button to unlock the door on her side.

Eleanor heaved her small frame up into the car, and Doug noticed a manila envelope on her lap. "What is that?" he asked, jerking his head toward the folder. She held it out to him wordlessly, and he opened it to find a series of grainy black-and-white photographs.

Doug thumbed through one photograph after another, realizing that the photos were screenshots of closed-circuit security cameras. In each photograph, it appeared as though a closed business was being broken into. Doug could make out the pixelated images of hooded figures smashing windows and using crowbars on doors.

"What are these, Eleanor?" he demanded, holding the photos up toward the young staffer he'd only noticed earlier today.

"Nell," she corrected him, and he frowned more deeply. Her eyes looked darker than ever and her full lips pursed into a pout as she said, "The people you see in those pictures were all arrested for breaking and entering in Arizona, California, and New Mexico between 2008 and 2010. They are all known combat veterans, and the NSA and FBI have records that they were all members of online discussion boards pertaining to 'veterans' rights' and general discontent among Desert Storm and Iraqi Freedom vets regarding treatment once they got home. One group in particular encouraged its members to 'show civilians who has earned the right to a comfortable life and who hasn't' and to make certain civilians 'pay for their lack of gratitude.' They targeted events, parades, even concerts that the group perceived as anti-American. On its fringes, the group's activities involved vandalism of small businesses owned by civilians where those businesses created competition for veterans."

Doug flipped through the photographs again. He lingered on one for a while, noticing how the grainy figure in black and white was very obviously an amputee with a prosthetic leg. The man could be seen throwing a brick through the window of a tobacco shop. It was, to say the least, a confusing image.

"If these photographs ever see the light of day, the Veterans' Small Businesses bill will be snuffed out like a candle flame. The thing is, Mr. Stamper, that these are just a few angry guys who have been short-shrifted economically after enduring some terrible deployments. But you try explaining that to Bob Birch, who told you himself today that he has civilian small business owners to contend with in his district. You try explaining that to the civilian business owner who sees these photos on Fox News and wonders when someone trained in firing a sniper rifle is going to come for him. And then you try telling those people you want to subsidize -  _favor_ , some might say - Veterans' small businesses."

Doug Stamper nodded, cutting and shuffling the pile of photos like a deck of cards. Before he went any further, there were a few important logistical questions. "Where did you get the photos?" he demanded in a calm murmur, gazing intensely at Nell. She didn't flinch or hesitate.

"Bob Birch."

Doug scowled, taken aback. He felt his eyebrows fly up, betraying his surprise, and he stammered, "I - I spoke with Birch earlier. He wasn't even sure -"

"Birch knew about this bill a long time before it was ever brought to Committee. He's fundamentally in support of it, from an ideological perspective. A lot of this surveillance footage, a lot of these extremist guys, they come from his district. He deals with all kinds of crazies in his hinterlands part of the world. Economic opportunities in Arizona' s 2nd are few and far-between. He needs these photos hushed up if he's supposed to make everybody happy."

"No politician can make everybody happy," Doug mused, and he sniffed lightly as he asked, "Why did you bring me these?"

"Two reasons. First of all, to show you that Bob Birch is going to vote for this bill, that he wants it to pass, but that he's as nervous as a cat in a canoe when it comes to dealing with his own constituents. And secondly, to show you that this is a contentious issue and to advise the Congressman to push the bill and then back off Veterans' issues for a while. Move on to something less tumultuous. You know, abortion or social security or affirmative action or something."

Doug smirked at Nell's wise-cracking. Then he sucked on the inside of his cheek, wondering whether it was possible to trust the fresh staffer. She still hadn't said exactly where she'd gotten the photos. Had someone in Birch's office leaked them to Eleanor Simon, or had Congressman Birch handed the photos directly to the young woman? Doug was hesitant to appear hostile. But he did ask,

"Who do you  _really_  work for, Eleanor?"

"It's Nell," she corrected him again. She licked her lips and blinked her lashes, pushing her messy hair out of her face. Then she insisted, "I serve the people of the United States of America, just like you and all the members of Congress and the President and the janitors at the Smithsonian. I was fortunate enough to work for Senator Geld of Alaska during my senior year at Stanford University, and then I went back to California, graduated, and started job-hunting. But… Mr. Stamper, I think the fact that I met with you privately to give you these photos, when we've both been awake for over thirty-six hours… well, I should hope that speaks loudly to the fact that I work for House Majority Whip Frank Underwood."

"I'm glad you do." Doug nodded thoughtfully. Then he put the stack of photos back into the manila folder and shut it, watching as Nell Simon smoothed her skirt and cleared her throat.

"The vote is at nine tomorrow," she noted. "I'm going to go rest. You look like you should do the same, Mr. Stamper."

"First coffee, then dish soap, and now sleep? Are you a staffer or a babysitter?" Doug asked impulsively. Nell smirked, her dark eyes crinkling as she visibly stifled a yawn. Doug felt a twinge of unsolicited concern at the thought of the overworked young staffer driving after sleep deprivation, so he asked, "Can I give you a ride home?"

"Thanks, but I just have to take the Metro to Silver Spring." She nodded gratefully and started to open the car door. "I'd advise you to check in once more with Congressman Birch, and to notify Congressman Underwood that there's so much turbulence around Veterans' issues that's being actively stifled out west in the name of political momentum. Just… you know, keep Mr. Underwood apprised of what I've told you. Have a good night, Mr. Stamper."

"You can call me Doug. I thought Underwood hired you to count votes," Doug mused, shoving the manila envelope into his glove compartment as Nell Simon slid to the ground from the passenger seat. She arched her dark brows at him and shrugged.

"Maybe he did," she acknowledged. "But it's a ladder, like I said. One step a time. I'll see you tomorrow, Doug."

* * *

"Doug, I was just going to cut up some radishes and salt them. Can I get you a late-night snack?"

Claire Underwood moved through her kitchen like a wraith, her black bandage dress hugging the figure that reflected how often she'd chosen salted radishes as a snack. Doug Stamper cleared his throat lightly from where he sat in the formal living room.

"No, thank you," he said. "Do you know when Frank -"

"He said that his meeting with Congressman Morris would be over at nine. It's half past. I should think he'll be here very soon."

Doug nodded wordlessly at Claire's back as she calmly began to wash a bunch of radishes in the deep sink. There was a soft clinking and clamoring as she pulled out a knife and cutting board and set to work on her snack, and Doug took a moment to survey his surroundings. He'd been to the Underwoods' brownstone townhouse many times, of course, but he always marveled at just how  _clean_  it was. Doug kept his house very clean, too, but he knew full well that neither Frank nor Claire underwood ever raised a finger in the care and keeping of their own home. The slicing of radishes as a low-calorie indulgence was the most extensive domestic labor he'd ever seen Claire Underwood complete, and he'd scarcely known Frank Underwood to wander around the place with an electric drill in hand. It was true, Doug knew, that Frank Underwood had come from a modest beginning, but one would certainly never suspect the man of such an offense after looking around his home.

"Doug." The honey of Frank Underwood's smooth drawl dragged through the dim air as he strode into the living room. He unbuttoned his primly tailored suit jacket and pulled it off, laying it over the back of an armchair. Doug rose and held out his hand for his old friend and colleague to shake. Frank made him wait, choosing instead to loosen his scarlet tie and call out to Claire,

"Morris will meet with you next week to discuss subsidies for well R&D. Get a few of your CWI staff prepared for a meeting with him and a couple of other Ways and Means folks, and I expect you'll be able to talk him over your way."

Claire turned over her shoulder, her paring knife poised over a radish. She smiled and gave a graceful nod. "Thank you, Francis."

Frank turned to Doug, who had lowered his hand in defeat, and the two men sat in armchairs facing one another.

"Who do you suppose Eleanor Simon slept with in Bob Birch's office to get those photographs of the angry veterans?" Doug asked quietly, deciding to skip the small talk. Underwood smirked and drummed his fingertips against one another.

"Well, Nell may well be having some fun with somebody in Birch's office, though of course that wouldn't be any business of mine seeing as she's a grown woman. But, as far as I know, there was nothing untoward - at least not physically - involved in the transaction of those photos."

"How would you know, though?" Doug asked, narrowing his eyes. He'd spent the last few days since the successful vote wondering whether or not Nell Simon could be trusted.

"I know because I arranged for her to get the photos," Frank Underwood said, jarring Doug to sit up straighter. Doug's lips parted in surprise, but Frank's eyes glinted merrily as he continued, "You don't really think I could poach a particularly talented intern from a Republican Senator's office without vetting her in my own way, do you? I knew Bob Birch has been experiencing all manner of upheaval in his district between demographic factions - wealthy whites, poor whites, undocumented immigrants and the people who fear them, Native groups, and an ongoing public relations war between recent veterans and their civilian job competition. I had those photographs obtained from police departments in Birch's district - I had a few interns call around - and I had them sent anonymously to Birch's staffers. Then I asked Nell Simon to get in contact with Birch's office and scope out his real feelings on the Veterans' Small Business Bill. It's all about putting the right buzz in the right ear. I just wanted to see what she would do with important knowledge, with sensitive information. It was a test of her loyalty."

"And did she pass?" Doug asked tightly, not at all removed from the fact that Frank Underwood had hired Eleanor Simon without consulting his own Chief of Staff on the matter. Frank nodded gravely, and he said,

"I think she did. What do you think?"

"I get to interview her for the job now? A month in?"

"Oh, come on, Doug," Frank said quietly, tipping his head to the side and raising his eyebrows in a bored fashion. "You didn't even notice she was there."

Doug adjusted his glasses on his face and nodded. "Yeah," he conceded. "I've noticed now."

"She's a pretty little thing, too, isn't she?" Frank pressed, and Doug furrowed his brows in confusion. He glanced over to where Claire Underwood had been in the kitchen, but she'd disappeared like a silent ghost, leaving no trace of her snack-making activities behind. Doug gulped heavily and turned back to Frank.

"She's a kid," Doug shrugged, but Frank shook his head firmly.

"Do you know who Nell Simon's father is, Doug?" he asked, and suddenly Doug felt very foolish indeed. He hadn't noticed the young woman's presence on staff for a month, and now he was going to look ignorant if he didn't know her background. He searched his mind and tried to put pieces together. She was in her early twenties. Not dressed like old money. Last name of Simon - usually Jewish. But she was from Sitka, Alaska. Russian Jewish? Old Alaskan family from the pre-Seward days? What sort of thing bred old wealth in Alaska? And why would Frank Underwood care?

_Land ownership. Logging rights. Cheap timber. Paper mills._

The area around Charlotte, North Carolina was dotted with paper mills. Many of Frank Underwood's constituents worked at the mills. In recent years, with more protection of old-growth forests and restrictions on clear-cutting, the price of raw materials for the mills had gone up. Combined with decreased domestic demand for paper products, the result had been slashed mill jobs in Underwood's district.

"Eleanor Simon's father owns private land in Alaska that you want to see opened up for logging," Doug said, and he watched a proud grin crawl across Frank Underwood's face.

"That's exactly right," Frank nodded vigorously. "Mr. Shepherd Simon owns nearly a half a million acres of private forest throughout Alaska. He was approached two years ago by a few of my congressional colleagues with an offer to buy up most of his land that abuts the Tongass National Forest and add it to the protected land. Shepherd Simon said no. He wants that land to make him money - more money than the National Parks Service will ever be able to pay him for it. I need to bide my time, because Mr. Simon has proven himself to be an extraordinarily patient man as he waits to cash in on his inherited 'gold mine.' But if I can give his daughter a solid place in my office, make her feel useful and welcome, well… maybe a conversation with her father about his land use choices might run more smoothly a year from now."

Doug frowned deeply. "Nell Simon is no idiot," he protested quietly. "She isn't going to work as a pawn, Frank. She's willful. You can see that plain enough."

"Then reign her in. I've seen plenty of willful horses in my day, but none that a good enough jockey couldn't bring to stride. All I need is for her to get comfortable, to feel attached."

"To our office," Doug said carefully, for he was suddenly beginning to understand Frank's implications.

"I need her to feel like it might be a good idea to get her father on the side of Congressman Frank Underwood when the time comes," Frank said rather firmly. "She proved herself to be loyal, but she might decide six months from now that she doesn't like my politics, and then she might resign. I want you to give her a reason to stay."

Doug gritted his teeth and squared his jaw. "You want me to flirt with a woman more than twenty years younger than me so that she won't flee in terror? That doesn't sound like a very good idea. Or am I supposed to threaten her? Which is it?"

"I have confidence in you, Doug," Frank said, rising slowly to his feet. Doug stood, too, and Frank continued, "I know you'll be able to make it worth Ms. Simon's while to stay on our ship, and to help us bring her father onboard when we need him with us. Thanks for stopping by, Doug; I appreciate your patience waiting on my meeting with Congressman Morris."

Frank started to walk toward his front door, and Doug knew their meeting was over and he was being ushered away. He pulled on his suit jacket and trench coat and picked up his leather briefcase, and he nodded crisply to Frank.

"Be careful of her," Doug said as Frank opened the front door. "She thinks she's playing everyone around her in order to become successful. I think she'd be pretty hostile if she found out you were just using her as a pawn to get her father's land."

"Her father's land is a wonderful bonus," Frank said diplomatically, "but, Doug, have you read that bill that Nell Simon wrote last year for Senator Geld? The Kensington - Slate Lake Law? It was top-notch, truly. She's an asset to the entire team and I'm elated to have her with us."

Doug stared at Frank Underwood's face for a long moment, trying to find a chip in the mask, a tell that gave away the other man's insincerity. But besides a disconnect between the coolness of his eyes and the crinkle of his smile, it looked and sounded like Frank Underwood was emphatically telling the truth. He was honored to have Nell Simon on his team as a talented young tactician and writer. But Doug Stamper knew better. He knew Frank Underwood only cared about those Alaskan forests. He also suspected that Frank was playing with fire when it came to the young staffer.

Doug nodded at Frank and sighed lightly. "Goodnight, Congressman."

"Goodnight, Mr. Stamper."

* * *

"It's almost seven. I think I'll go ahead and take a food order. It's Thursday - Chinese. Evan? What would you like?" One of the over-eager young interns began circulating through the office, and Doug tuned out the conversation around him about 'no kung pao sauce' and 'extra broccoli.' He had far more important things to take care of, like reading through an arduous proposition for the House to affirm the national importance of peanut butter in the face of rising allergy instances. Doug pulled off his glasses and shook his head at the lunacy before him.

"Anything for dinner, Mr. Stamper?"

Doug glanced up to see the young intern before him. The kid looked like a Mormon missionary, Doug thought, with his too-short black suit and tie and his crew-cut hair. Doug cleared his throat roughly and said,

"Beef pot stickers. No rice."

The intern nodded obediently and dashed away. Overhead, a fluorescent lightbulb flickered, and Doug made a mental note to notify building maintenance. There were few things more annoying than a flickering light in an office. From another corner of the cramped room, another intern yawned and said,

"I'm actually headed home for the night, I think. I've got an early meeting tomorrow with a few people from Tennessee's third."

Doug nodded. The red-headed young man rose from his desk, mumbled a good-night or two to the straggling staffers, and retreated from the office.

"You know, Andrew, I think maybe you should head home, too. We all should. No votes to count tonight, but we've all got meetings in the morning. You can take a food order tomorrow, hm?"

The eager blond intern with the crew cut, Andrew, whirled around to face Nell Simon. His pale cheeks colored, and Doug's eyes flicked back and forth between the two young staffers. Doug was no fool; he could sense immediately that this Andrew was flustered by the mere concept of speaking with Nell Simon.

"Yeah. Of course. You're right, Nell."

The boy headed back to his own desk and began to pack up his bag. Doug frowned; he'd been somewhat looking forward to pot stickers. He continued to read through the ridiculous resolution proposal before him. He and Nancy Kaufberger had exchanged bemused glances when the proposal had come in a few hours previously. Frank's secretary had handed Doug the stack of papers with an apologetic look, and she'd said,

"They want to honor peanut butter. I guess the Oscar Meyer weiner is probably next."

It was a stupid resolution, of course, and there would probably be a few dozen mothers of allergic children who would name-call politicians on online mommy boards over the resolution. But South Carolina was the eighth-largest producer of peanuts in the country, and bordered Jimmy Carter's home state of Georgia, where he'd cut his teeth as a peanut farmer gone political. Doug pulled out his cell phone and composed a text message to Frank Underwood.

_Ridiculous proposal for H.R. to recognize peanut butter as 'Part of American Spirit.' Date of vote not known._

There was no reply for a moment. Doug glanced around the quiet office and realized that there were only two other people left: an entry-level staffer talking quietly on a headset, and Eleanor Simon. Doug watched Nell for a brief moment, watched the way the blue-white glow of her computer screen washed out her normally warm skin. But then she noticed him watching, and there was an instant of frozen, awkward eye contact before Doug's phone beeped to notify him of an incoming text message. He quickly glanced down to see Frank Underwood's response.

_We already have George Washington Carver Recognition Day. And a Canadian was the 1st to work w/PB._

Doug snorted quietly in laughter at Underwood's text. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Nell Simon glance curiously over, but her eyes quickly returned to her own computer screen. Doug saw the cold glow of her computer screen disappear as she flicked off the monitor, saw her begin to pack up her bag. He wrote back to Frank,

_Pls do not make this an actual argument. Peanut butter is important. Just say yes to that idea._

_Peaches are far more important._  The reply came almost instantly. Doug smirked and began to type a response, but then his screen lit up again as Frank Underwood sent another message.  _Peanuts, Peaches, and Pecans: The Southern Trifecta of Critical Foodstuffs._

_Sounds like a good Agri Studies textbook. Get cracking, Professor,_  Doug wrote back. Then he added,  _Vote yes on the stupid resolution._

_Yes, sir,_  came the lighthearted response.

Doug felt his mood lift immensely. Sometimes he feared that Frank Underwood didn't need him, that he was just another cog in the congressman's political machine. One of Doug Stamper's most itching and pervasive fears was the notion that he was easily replaceable, that he didn't matter to the people he admired. A simple text message exchange like the one he'd just had with Frank was often all it took to remind him that he was in a fruitful business relationship with a shrewd and aspirational politician.

Flush with confidence, he stood from his desk and pulled on his suit coat. He crossed the narrow office until he got to Nell Simon's desk. She paused as she pushed a notebook into her tote bag, and she glanced up. Pushing a stray lock of dark hair from her face, she murmured,

"Heading home for the night, Mr. Stamper?"

"I got really excited about the concept of pot stickers. I was wondering if you might be interested in grabbing a quick bite to eat before you grab the Metro."

Nell glanced furtively to the only other occupied desk in the room, where the young man on the headset seemed engrossed by his computer screen. She lowered her voice to a whisper and demanded of Doug, "Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Stamper?"

Doug kept his face impassive and said, "It's normal and encouraged to network with colleagues on the Hill. I was tantalized with the promise of Chinese take-out, and I thought I'd eat before heading home. It was just a friendly invitation."

He made like he was going to leave then, pulling his trench coat from the crook of his arm and pushing his arms into the sleeves. He gave a curt nod to Nell and started to walk away, but he heard her say from behind him,

"Blacksalt Fish Market."

Doug turned around and raised his eyebrows. Blacksalt was a trendy, expensive place that served mint-infused melon and 'boutique oysters.' Doug had been there several times with Capitol Hill bigwigs, but he wouldn't have expected the young woman from Alaska to mention the place.

"Not exactly Chinese take-out," he informed her, cocking an eyebrow. Nell stood up straighter and pushed her chin up a bit proudly.

"We had  _very_  good seafood in Sitka," she told Doug. "Blacksalt is the only place in the District to get a halfway decent salmon tartare. We'll split it, since it's networking."

Doug shook his head. "My treat."

The car ride to the Palisades was mostly quiet, except for the low hum of a Top 40 radio station Doug had somewhat nervously switched on. At some point a few blocks away from the restaurant, the air in the car started to feel heavy and thick, and Doug remembered that he had a task to accomplish with Ms. Simon.

"So you're living out in Silver Spring?"

"I am," she replied. After another agonizing moment of silence, she clarified, "I found a decent one-bedroom for $1,700 a month downtown. It's fine. The commute's over an hour, but too much closer to the Hill and my options are squalor or 'downright unaffordable.'"

Doug nodded in concession. "I'm honestly not sure I want to know how most interns and new staffers afford housing," he said. Then he remembered that Eleanor Simon's father was apparently sitting on a half-million acres of valuable forest, and Doug wondered how much liquid assets the family had. To test the waters, he said, "It's got to be completely impossible with school loans."

Beside him, Nell nodded pensively. "I've got three-fifty a month from Stanford," she admitted. "Makes the prospect of law school significantly more daunting."

"Is that why you're in politics?" Doug asked rather impulsively, flicking his eyes briefly from the road to see Nell's confused expression.

"Because I appreciate the lofty pay scale?" she asked skeptically, and Doug found himself smiling.

"Because you want to make success more achievable, financially, for your generation."

"Oh. Well, of course it's a goal I'd like to see accomplished. My particular area of passion is environmental issues, as I'm sure you noticed with the gold mining regulations bill I wrote for Senator Geld. I grew up on an island in Alaska, surrounded by temperate rainforest. The idea of unregulated industry, of climate change, of air and water pollution, of resource exploitation… it's all disgusting to me. That's where I become the doe-eyed, bushy-tailed idealist, Mr. Stamper."

"Doug," he corrected her. He wanted to press her, to ask her whether she objected to her father selling off his private forest. Then he thought back to how Frank Underwood had noted that Nell's father had rejected an offer by the government to buy the land. Underwood had possibly misjudged the man's intentions in holding onto the land, Doug thought. Perhaps Shepherd Simon wasn't hoarding a half million acres of Alaskan forest in order to wait out the highest bidder. Perhaps he was keeping the land away from anyone and everyone who might destroy it.

Doug pursed his lips, unsure of how best to bring that possibility up to Frank Underwood. One thing he knew for certain was that he needed to steer his conversation with Nell away from talk of forests and mines and money - and fast.

"You can change the radio station," he said hurriedly.

"I don't even know what's popular these days," Nell admitted, shrugging as Doug pulled the car into a parallel spot. He shut off the ignition and walked around the SUV, wondering what degree of physical proximity she would consider chivalrous, and what she would consider inappropriate and crass. He decided to stand in front of the open door and offer her his hand as she climbed out of the tall truck, but she needed little help hopping down. She quickly pulled her hand away from his and maintained a modest distance from him as they stepped inside.

He didn't let her split the bill after they'd had their fill of overdressed crustaceans. She protested only as long as was decent, but Doug waved her off as he signed the check. They'd spent dinner discussing her childhood in Sitka ("climbing trees with a book between my teeth and spending hours up in the branches reading," she'd said) and discussing - at the surface level - what Doug had done with his time in Washington.

"There's a bus station just across the street," Nell noted as they stepped out of the restaurant, after she'd thanked Doug for the fifth time for dinner. He frowned at her, but she continued, "No Metro station nearby, but I think I can do the 70 bus and connect with the Red Line… or maybe the 70 bus…" she trailed off, but kept walking up the street to where Doug had parked. Doug instinctively reached out for Nell's elbow and she turned, her dark brown eyes serious as she sighed and said, "I know what you're going to say. You're going to offer to drive me all to way up to Silver Spring, even though you live in Arlington. You're going to insist, to say that it would be silly for me to ride two hours' worth of public transportation when you have a car here. But I am going to decline, Doug, because this dinner was just for networking, remember?"

Unexpectedly insulted, Doug pulled his hand from Eleanor's elbow. He squared his jaw and nodded. "You're a grown woman, Ms. Simon," he said coldly. "Go home however you like. I'll see you at the office in the morning."

He stared at her for a moment in the orange glow of the sodium streetlights, and she stared back. Her eyes glittered, wide and clearly searching for the first time since he'd met her. She'd been more careful with her makeup today, and the day before, though Doug thought she'd probably just watched a few good YouTube tutorials on flattering colors and application techniques. Her thick, wavy hair was falling out of its forced style, just as it did at the end of every day. Some odd, aching impulse inside of Doug wanted to pull the pins from her bun and let her hair fall loose. His fingers twitched at his side as he wondered absently what it might feel like to run his fingers through Nell's hair.

Then he remembered what he'd figured out before they'd arrived at the restaurant. She had no money to speak of. She was an avid environmentalist. Frank Underwood might be entirely wrong about any strategic potential Nell Simon brought to the table. Maybe she was completely useless. Doug thought he should just say goodnight to her here, under the streetlight, and let her walk to the bus station in the dark. He thought he should get into his car and text Frank that the girl was a dud of a pawn but could be kept on staff if for no reason other than her actual potential as a whipping staffer.

Doug thought about all the things he should have done, all the things Frank Underwood would have considered him obligated to do. But instead of doing those things, he let his twitching fingers pull up and drag along Nell Simon's forehead, pushing aside a stray lock of hair like she always did.

"Do you… are you seeing anybody right now?" Doug heard his voice ask. He was ashamed of the uncertainty in his question, of the boyish supplication he heard. But he watched Nell dig her top teeth into her bottom lip, and she did not pull away from his fingertips at her temple. She shook her head slowly.

"I wouldn't have come to a gourmet restaurant on a date with a colleague if I were attached. That wouldn't be appropriate," she said, her low murmur almost drowned out by the sound of a passing car. Doug felt a strange twist in his abdomen, felt a thudding in his chest, and he swallowed thickly.

"It was just a casual invitation intended to replace the pot stickers that blond kid was supposed to bring me."

Nell nodded, and Doug struggled not to shiver at the feel of her face moving against his fingertips. He could have pulled his hand away. He should have. But he left his fingers where they were, even daring to lace them back into her hair a bit. Nell dragged her tongue over her bottom lip and whispered, "That 'blond kid' is an intern from Yale. Valedictorian from Phillips Exeter. His name's Peter."

"He's in love with you," Doug said simply, tipping his head to the side a bit. He kept his face impassive even as Nell quietly giggled.

"Is he?" she asked. "You didn't even know I existed for the first month of my employment, but you notice the way a kid from Yale pays attention to me?"

"When am I going to live down the fact that the first month of your employment was an especially busy time for me? Besides which, I don't make a habit of being interested in our freshest, most transient staffers… because nearly all of them are the Peters of the world."

Nell gnawed on her bottom lip again, pulling away some of her plum-colored lipstick. "I know you were busy with the Veterans' Small Businesses bill for the first month I was around. I remember watching you pop in and out of Congressman Underwood's office over and over. You always looked so much more tired coming out than going in. You looked like…"

She scoffed quietly, under her breath, and lowered her eyes. Doug scowled, feeling as though she were laughing at him. He pulled his fingers from her hair, but Nell reached out and seized them. The place on Doug's hand where she held him felt like an electrical shock had struck him through, and he swallowed carefully. Eleanor raised her shining dark eyes to Doug's, staring at him in the flickering glow of the streetlight. She pressed his palm fully against her cheeks and murmured,

"You looked like you needed a stiff drink. But someone told me… Anyway, it doesn't matter. Black coffee'll help you just as well, right? That or a good screw."

Doug shut his eyes, suddenly feeling a bit as though the sidewalk were spinning. He stumbled backward a step and tore his hand from Eleanor's face. Quite abruptly, Frank Underwood's order to keep Eleanor Simon close felt like a deeply personal sacrifice. It felt wrong on a visceral level. Doug wanted Nell's body, and why not? She was young and nubile and had a pretty face. She had a sharp wit and good brain and a smile that extended deeply to her eyes. There was a part of Doug Stamper that wanted to go above and beyond Frank Underwood's orders and offer to take Nell to his house in Arlington for the night. But instead, he stood with his eyes wrenched shut and steadied himself as a car whizzed behind him down the street. He felt positively drunk, though he hadn't had a drop of liquor in years.

"I wish you'd let me drive you home," he said quietly, "but no matter what you're doing… it's, eh… it's getting late."

Nell raised her eyebrows and checked the time on her phone. "It's not quite nine," she told him. "You got somewhere to be, Cinderella?"

Doug pursed his lips and shook his head firmly. "No, I don't."

"How about taking me to Silver Spring, then?" Nell asked, as though him driving her home were entirely her idea. Doug smirked and nodded. The car ride to Maryland at least had better music than the drive out to the restaurant, since Nell had the good sense to change the station to jazz.

" _You told me love was too plebeian, Told me you were through with me and -"_

Doug glanced quickly to the passenger seat to see that Nell was singing softly along with the instrumental version of "Cry Me a River." Her voice was low and rumbling, nearly whispered, but her tone was honeyed and pleasant. Doug gulped, and Nell went quiet after he looked over at her.

"Don't stop singing," he requested quietly, and she laughed a little.

"Too embarrassing and neither one of us is drunk," she said simply. "Should I turn Top 40 back on so neither of us knows the words?"

Doug didn't answer her. He tried to form his face into a smile, a frown, anything. But all he could do was say, "I wish you'd keep singing, Nell."

There was a little bit of silence then, filled only with the bossa nova-style guitar and drum swell in the song's bridge. Nell stared at Doug as he drove, but he could see her out the corner of his eye. Finally, she turned her head away from him and began singing again. The words came out like a sweetly growled prayer in her contralto voice.

" _Now you say you love me, well, just to prove that you do. Come on and cry me a river. Cry me a river. I cried a river over you."_

She climbed out of his car with another set of thank-yous and stiffly exchanged pleasantries when they reached her building in Silver Spring. Doug watched her walk through her building's secured main entrance and peered through the glass doors as she climbed into the elevator. He shut off his radio and sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the stitching on his steering wheel.

He had been downright indignant when Frank Underwood had suggested he use the brilliantly-minded Nell Simon for political gain. He'd thought the idea to be not only insulting but foolhardy. Then, tonight, once he'd actually convinced her to go with him to a public location, he'd learned that Underwood's motives with the girl might all amount to nothing in the long run. But none of that mattered much as Doug sat alone in his quiet car, thinking back to the sound of her singing and the feel of her soft hair.

The sound of his cell phone notification beeping jarred Doug back to reality. He read the text message from Frank Underwood and put his lips into a line.

_Did you manage dinner with Nell Simon?_

Doug's thumbs hovered over the keys for a long moment. Doug contemplated all manner of responses, from a complicated lie to the absolute truth to completely ignoring Frank Underwood. Finally, Doug typed,

_Took her to Blacksalt for seafood. Just dropped her off in MD. Nothing too eventful but will help keep her close._

He stared at the waiting pulse of the text box cursor, knowing that Underwood was reading and responding to the message. Sure enough, just a few moments later, more words appeared on-screen.

_Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Stamper._

Doug sighed and tossed his phone down onto the passenger seat, sparing one last glance up to Nell's building. He put his car in reverse and trained his eyes squarely on the road ahead. He never turned the radio back on, choosing to drive back to his house in complete, blissful silence.

* * *

**You are invited to the 12th Annual South Carolina Elected Officials Reception**

**Thursday, April 7, 2011 at 8:00 pm**

**In the Great Hall of the Library of Congress - Washington, D.C.**

_The South Carolina Farm Bureau recognizes the important contributions of our elected officials in our nation's capital. Members of Congress representing the state of South Carolina, as well as their staff and families, are invited to join with members of the South Carolina farming and business communities. Black-tie attire required. RSVP to Michelle Hackerley by April 1st._

Doug Stamper dragged the pad of his thumb around the scalloped edge of the die-cut invitation, flicking his finger over the neatly tied navy ribbon at the top.

"You going to go?" he heard Nancy Kaufberger ask brusquely. Doug glanced up from his desk to Frank's secretary and hesitated. He despised formal receptions in Washington - they consisted not only of forced 'schmoozing,' but of endless temptations for a recovering alcoholic. Doug sighed lightly and asked Nancy,

"Does he want us to go?"

He meant Frank, of course. Nancy nodded. "I asked him this morning when the invites came in," she said. "He wants, at a bare minimum, fifteen staff. They're expecting two hundred total from all the South Carolina congressional offices, and he wants to be strongly represented."

"Yeah. Okay. Put me on a list, go around the office and get a tally, and get a collective RSVP to…" he glanced down at the invitation. "Michelle Hackerley. By April 1st."

"I'll do it today," Nancy nodded crisply. She handed Doug the rest of his mail, pausing for a brief moment before releasing the envelopes. "Will you be bringing… how many should I put down?"

"It's just me," Doug said, wondering why the woman seemed flustered by the concept of a middle-aged bachelor. Nancy nodded and was off, and Doug flipped through constituents' snail mail, 'awards' of all sorts, invitations, and other paper pleasantries, sorting out the few items worthy of Frank's attention.

The next several weeks were spent in recess, and Frank Underwood disappeared with his wife to Gaffney. Doug stayed behind in D.C., helming the ship of the office. There were still deals to be struck, compromises to be made, minds to be changed, even in a recess. By the time Frank Underwood was back in the District, Doug Stamper had managed to whip dozens of previously undecided votes on a massive upcoming bill regarding offshore drilling.

He'd had help, of course, from a few important staffers, most notably Eleanor Simon. The staunch environmentalist had managed to put the fear of God into even the most centrist Democrats on the issue. She'd sat in on a meeting with the fiscally conservative Representative from Washington State. When that meeting had proven less than fruitful, Nell had suggested using pressure from Oregonian and Alaskan congresspeople, arguing that there was a sort of "Pacific Northwest" camaraderie to be built around the issue of conservation. She'd been right; with a few strategically placed phone calls and lunches, the Representative from Washington had committed to vote against drilling.

"Sounds as though Ms. Simon is in need of a promotion," Frank told Doug, during a debriefing before the start of the new legislative session. Doug stared across Frank's desk and shrugged.

"Give her whatever title and salary you want, but she sure as shit is worth more to us than a lackey with a dry erase marker."

"List her as a policy assistant on my official documents and website. Put her in the appropriate pay grade. She needs to feel like her day-to-day efforts are having a measurable effect so she'll stick around -"

"They are."

Frank stared over the rims of his glasses and raised his greying eyebrows at Doug. "I beg your pardon?" he asked. Frank Underwood was not a man who enjoyed being interrupted. Doug cleared his throat and said,

"Her efforts are having a measurable effect. She's your most valuable junior staffer. Ever."

"Are you saying that because she's the heiress to a half million acres of virgin hardwood forest, or because she's made you feel a bit less lonely as of late?"

Doug narrowed his eyes, offended and taken aback by Frank's words. He felt his mouth fall open a bit. "I'm saying it because she's your most valuable junior staffer, Frank. She's smart. People like her when she sits in on meetings because she isn't scary, but she knows what she's talking about. And she could talk an ant under a magnifying glass. But I haven't touched her."

That wasn't strictly true. He  _had_  touched her, in the most absolute sense of the phrase, that night weeks earlier when he'd taken her to dinner. He'd touched her hair and her cheek. But that was it. Frank Underwood looked unconvinced. His syrupy drawl was stronger than ever as he pronounced,

"You may not have taken her yet, but I have every confidence that you will. You see, Doug, I only surround myself with people who are ready, able, and willing to take what they want. It's the only way they'll help me take what I want, you understand. And it's very plain to me that you  _want_  Ms. Simon. So do all three of us a favor and just take her, would you?"

Doug sniffed and stood from his chair, pulling at the hem of his suit jacket. "Is there anything else you need for today?"

"No. That'll be all. Goodnight, Doug."

The bill on offshore drilling failed to pass in a landslide, and the Underwood office saw the vote as a major success. Doug's final vote tally had been precisely on target, and he knew that the positive fallout from the vote would prove to be important during the coming session. The vote had been the morning of the South Carolina Elected Officials Reception, so by the afternoon, the entire office was on a bit of a high. Everyone headed home around two-thirty, to rest and recoup a bit before the formal night out. Doug ate a late lunch of authentic ramen at a place near his house, and then watched a few old episodes of  _Law and Order_  on syndication. He cleaned up his already-immaculate home, took a hot shower, shaved, and got himself dressed in his best tuxedo. By then, it was past seven, so he made his way to his car.

An hour later, Doug Stamper stood on the wooden inlays of the zodiac in the floor of the Great Hall. He gave a nod in passing to the Chief of Staff for Joe Wilson, the Republican congressman from South Carolina's 2nd District and an assistant Whip for the minority. The cavernous space echoed with the strains of the hired string quartet and with the laughs and murmurs of the growing crowd. Doug sipped at his Dr. Pepper and glanced around the room. He stared for a moment at the marble  _putti_ , the carved cherubs that represented various parts of American history and society during the late 19th-century construction of the Library of Congress. One pair of  _putti_  represented America and Africa. America was represented as a squatting Indian child, a feather headdress on his head and his eyes shaded as he looked into the future. Africa was represented as a rabid-looking Black cherub with animal claws. Contrasted with the idyllic statue for Europe, the racism was striking. Even more significant was its permanence. It was etched into stone. Some mistakes, Doug thought, and some deep levels of wrong thinking, could never be erased. Not without a sledgehammer. He flicked his eyes up one side of the marble staircase, taking mental attendance of South Carolinian Members of Congress and their staff. At the top of the stairs stood a figure that made Doug's eyes jerk to a halt.

She was facing away from him, clearly engaged in an animated conversation with Congressman Wilson's legislative counsel and with a few Underwood interns. Doug stared unabashedly at her, reaching up to graze his fingertips over the enormous carved newel post at the base of the stairs. Nell was wearing green. Of course she was; the offshore drilling bill had failed and she was flaunting her environmental colors. Her emerald gown was long-sleeved, with a deeply draped back that revealed the way her shoulder blades moved as she spoke and gesticulated. The way the gown hugged her torso and then spilled to the floor made her look like one of the Great Hall's statues come to life. Her dark hair was up in a braided bun with gold ribbon woven through.

So much for cheap lipstick and ill-fitting skirt suits.

Doug wondered absently who had helped Nell get dressed into such a flattering ensemble. Then he wondered what she looked like from the front. Then he wondered whether the blond kid from Yale thought Nell looked pretty tonight. Peter - his name was Peter. Doug thought Peter probably noticed how nice Nell's back looked in this dress, too.

His fingers clenched around the base of the newel post, rather of their own accord, and then a low murmur from behind him said,

"Go up and talk to her, Doug."

Doug turned his head over his shoulder to see Claire Underwood, clutching a goblet of white wine and smirking at him. She sipped at her wine and Doug felt a strange queasiness. He tried to think of a response to Claire's suggestion, but he had scarcely opened her mouth when Claire continued,

"I don't know much about her - Francis has only told me that it's important you all stay in good graces with her father. But I'll have you know that she was staring down from that balustrade ten minutes ago, before that cluster of people came over to her. She was watching you get your soda, and now you're watching her. Why don't you go talk to her?"

Claire's smirk deepened as she sipped her wine again. She looked quite pleased with herself, as though she were some sort of masterful matchmaker. Doug felt a stab of unwanted shame at the thought of such a thing.

"I just thought it was a bit odd to see her making nice with Republican staffers, that's all," he said, but Claire shook her head.

"First of all, for all you know she's absorbing all sorts of heat over the drilling bill from that Republican staffer. We women are awfully good at plastering on smiles, you know." Claire flashed Doug a dazzling grin to make her point and giggled flirtatiously. Then her smile disappeared, and she said seriously, "Francis wants that girl to stay close. I saw her watching you. I saw you watching her. Doug, go on up those stairs and tell her she looks pretty. Girls like that."

"Do they?" Doug took a swig of his Dr. Pepper and set the mostly-empty glass down on the nearest cocktail table. He wasn't about to walk up to a group of adults holding a kid's drink. He gulped down the soda and flicked his eyes up and down Claire Underwood's slim form with a look of bare appraisal. "You look pretty tonight, Mrs. Underwood."

She smirked again at his cheek and nodded. "Thank you."

Doug nodded respectfully and stepped away, starting up the marble stairs. He kept his eyes on the group where Nell stood, pausing halfway up the grand staircase when he saw the blond intern with the crew-cut -  _Peter_  - approaching the group. Peter held out a fresh drink, a tumbler of amber liquid, to Nell. There was a stupid sort of smitten look in the boy's eyes when Nell gratefully took the drink, and Doug abruptly felt his ears go hot with anger. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked down at the carpet on the stairs for a moment.

What was he doing? He was forty-five years old, balding, a complete loner. What reason did Nell Simon have to speak to him outside of the context of political finagling? Especially when she had an old-money kid from Yale to hand her whiskey.

Some force of nature dragged Doug's feet up the rest of the stairs. He told himself that it was loyalty to the Underwoods that compelled him to carry on in Nell's direction. After all, he'd now been instructed by both Frank and Claire to keep Nell Simon close by whatever means he could. But Doug was confident that Nell's father had nothing to truly offer Frank Underwood, and that she wouldn't be manipulated into staying anywhere against her will, anyway. It wasn't loyalty or duty that pulled him up the stairs. It was want, pure and unadulterated.

His fingers twitched a bit at his sides as he neared the cluster of staffers in which Nell stood. Peter noticed Doug first. Of course he did. The young man bobbed his head politely and said,

"Mr. Stamper, we were just discussing the House Resolution on peanut butter. Care to comment?"

Doug gave a crooked, joyless smile around the assembled group. There were a few interns from various South Carolinian offices, Wilson's legislative counsel, Peter, and… Eleanor Simon. She turned to face Doug when Peter addressed him, and Doug felt like he'd been punched in the chest.

The front of her emerald gown was strikingly simple; it had a modest neckline and smooth material that hugged the slight curves of her form. Her ears glittered with little golden earrings, and her makeup was expertly applied but natural in style. Doug managed to swallow the thick knot in his throat and forced his eyes back to Peter's loathsome face.

"Congressman Frank Underwood recognizes the important role peanuts, and more specifically peanut butter, have played in American popular culture and cuisine. Nutritious, delicious, and economically important to the state of South Carolina and to the United States, peanut butter is a wonderful part of the American spirit. Congressman Frank Underwood is proud to support the non-binding resolution honoring this most American of foods."

Peter stared blankly at Doug for a split second, for Doug had delivered the memorized press release with a completely straight face and serious voice. But then Peter doubled over in laughter, and the rest of the group joined him. Doug turned his eyes to Nell and saw that she was merely smiling, her wide brown eyes glowing in the dimmed lights of the Great Hall. Doug tried to rip his eyes from her, failed, and struggled to process the question when Wilson's staffer asked,

"Doug, I need to know your secrets. How on Earth did you manage to whip so quickly on the drilling bill?"

Doug blinked slowly and turned to the thirtysomething staffer, a plump man in a rented tuxedo. He shrugged and said honestly, "We wouldn't have had the votes without Nell's presence in a few meetings and her voice on the end of the line on some calls. She's the best thing the GOP ever gave our office."

"Huh." Wilson's counsel raised his wine glass toward Nell, whose cheeks colored at the attention. She stood up a bit straighter as Wilson's staffer said, "Well, good work, Ms. Simon. You helped cost Exxon a billion dollars of annual taxable revenue, but at least the caribou are safe."

Doug sensed tension radiating from Nell then, and he thought she was preparing to say something ill-advised in response to the Republican staffer. Doug could also tell that Wilson's man had already overindulged in the reception's red wine supply. He shifted on his feet, licked his bottom lip, and said diplomatically,

"It's actually you I came up here to see, Nell. Would you walk with me for a moment?"

"Of course." Nell's hand tightened around her tumbler of whiskey, and she quietly excused herself from the group. Doug led her away, down the second-floor colonnade in silence, until she muttered,

"Thank you for rescuing me from that guy. He would have talked my ear off all night, I think, and I didn't like a damn thing he had to say."

"No problem," Doug said simply. They reached the end of the corridor and turned east, away from the bustle of the Great Hall. Doug stopped when he felt sufficiently secluded, and he turned round to face Nell. He noticed she'd left her whiskey behind when they'd abandoned the group of staffers, and he said,

"Can I get you a new drink?"

"I left it on purpose," she said pointedly, turning her eyes down toward the clusters of guests on the ground level. She crossed her arms lightly over her stomach and stroked at her elbow with the fingertips of her left hand. She sighed lightly and said,

"The first time I was ever in this building, I was ten years old. I was visiting Washington, D.C. with my parents, because it was the first time that the National Parks Service tried to buy my father's forests. You work for Frank Underwood, so I'm sure you know all about my father's forests."

Doug felt a stifling warmth then, an embarrassment coupled with frustration. He had wanted to tell Nell that she looked pretty, just like Claire had told him to do. Instead, it looked as though he were about to witness the dissolution of the professional charade between Frank Underwood and Nell Simon. She looked at Doug with a question in her wide brown eyes, and he nodded.

"I know that Shepherd Simon owns five hundred thousand acres of cedar, spruce, and hemlock bordering the Tongass National Forest."

"Frank Underwood wants to broker a deal between my father and the paper companies that run mills near his district," Nell said. She nodded gravely, directing her eyes back to the main floor of the hall. Doug followed her gaze to where Underwood stood, apparently smooth-talking the two other Democrats from South Carolina. Doug cleared his throat and said,

"He wants to save jobs at the mills. That's his job as the area's representative."

"I can respect that." Nell nodded again, and Doug felt his eyebrows rise a bit. But then Nell gripped her own elbows more tightly and said, "My father inherited his money from  _his_  father, who owned six crab-fishing boats in the Aleutian Islands. My father used his inheritance to buy up low-lying, intact forest that was in direct threat of clear-cut logging during the early 80s. It wasn't intended as an investment. I didn't grow up rich, Doug. I grew up kayaking through fjords, hiking through areas where formal trails have never existed. I grew up learning about uses of the inner bark of the red cedar from an old Tlingit lady. And I was told, time and time again, that my family were stewards of those forests. Not owners. The land isn't, and never will be, for sale. I'm sorry."

Doug shut his eyes and bowed his head. He pressed his fingertips to his forehead. It wouldn't be fun to share this revelation with Frank Underwood.

"You'll still be his pawn," he heard himself saying to Nell. "The moment he finds out about this, he'll threaten to blacklist you in every government job - from Capitol Hill staffer to municipal water employee. He'll use you to pressure your father into selling, and when that doesn't work, he'll just fire you and kill your professional future."

"I know." Nell nodded. She sighed deeply. "That's why I've spoken with my father privately about the matter. He's agreed to sign over two hundred thousand acres of the land in exchange for a few conditions."

Doug stood up straighter and put his hands on the hips. "What conditions are those?"

Nell turned her face to him and smiled crookedly. "One condition was for me. That I fight hard on the offshore drilling bill. I did. It failed to pass. He was really proud when I called him today."

"He should be," Doug nodded, and he meant it. Nell dragged the pad of her thumb over her bottom lip and said,

"The other condition is that the land is harvested sustainably, not clear-cut. The acreage should be able to serve as lumber supply for North Carolina's mills for many years if it's handled correctly. My father will refer you to a number of competent Alaskan forestry scientists."

"I don't see why that couldn't be arranged," Doug said, forcing his voice to stay calm and his face to stay impassive. He tried to ignore the way his heart had begun to thump frantically in his chest, and he asked, "What's the price per acre he wants for the land?"

Nell's cheeks colored and she stared at the floor. She shuffled her foot and said softly, "My undergraduate student loans would be $22,000 if I paid them off in one lump sum. A half million for me to buy a condo and to supplement my less-than-generous staffer salary. That's it. Five and a quarter."

Doug felt his eyebrows fly up. "That's less than three dollars an acre," he scoffed, and shook his head disbelievingly. "That's charity. What's the catch?"

"No catch, believe it or not. I'm sure you don't. Land goes for cheap up in Alaska. Just ask Seward." Nell sniffed lightly and leaned backward against the marble wall. "Enough politicking, at least between you and me. We can discuss it with the congressman when you're ready. I just want to stand here and stare at the ceiling."

She tipped her head back against the cold white wall and gazed upward at the impressive mosaics, paintings, and gilding that covered the elaborate ceiling of the Great Hall. While she looked at the building, Doug looked at her. He marveled, both at Nell's gift for smooth diplomacy, and at her elegant form and beautiful face. He heard the crack in his own voice as he said,

"You look really nice tonight."

Nell didn't look at him, but a warm smile crossed her face as she looked up at the ceiling. "I borrowed the dress," she admitted, "from Mrs. Underwood."

Doug huffed out a low laugh. He should have known Claire had been bullshitting him when she'd claimed not to know much about Nell Simon. And the figure-hugging sheath  _was_  something Claire Underwood might wear.

"It looks good on you," Doug continued, wondering absently if he sounded like a teenager or an old man when he flirted with her. Nell shut her eyes, her copper eyeshadow shimmering in the dim lights. Her knowing smile widened and she murmured a thank-you. Then she asked,

"Are you as tired as I am? I feel like we've been running for weeks with no water break. Even in the few hours of sleep I've caught every night, my dreams have been laced with catchphrases like 'economically and culturally important species,' and 'transition to renewable energy.'"

Doug chuckled again, low and in the back of his throat. "Sometimes I wonder who's whipping whom with these big votes," he conceded. Then he felt a surge of impulsive confidence, born of his promising conversation with Nell about the Alaskan forests, and of the way she looked as she stood before him. He ground his teeth and stepped closer to her, watching her eyelids flutter open as she listened to the string quartet and the chattering voices below.

"I think I'll get going pretty soon," she said, her voice sleepy and warm.

"Look at me, Nell," Doug commanded gently, and she did. Her hairstyle ground against the marble behind her head, sending a few wayward locks flying down into her face. Doug reached to push the hair from her eyes and pulled the pad of his thumb under her eye. She shivered when he touched her, and she gnawed on her lip as Doug whispered, "I want to kiss you."

He told her what he wanted instead of asking permission, because he knew that's what Frank Underwood had been doing for the entirety of his climb to power. Doug could still hear Frank's snide voice as he advised Doug to 'take' Nell Simon.  _You see, Doug, I only surround myself with people who are ready, able, and willing to take what they want._

Frank Underwood had once compared Nell Simon to an unruly racehorse. But Doug knew better. He tightened his hand a bit on Nell's cheek, knowing that she wasn't one to be taken. She was one to be asked. He leaned down and put his lips beside her ear, asking softly,

"Will you let me kiss you, please?"

"Yeah." Nell nodded grimly, her rickety breath hot on Doug's lips as he moved his mouth to hers.

The distant but unmistakable flavor of whiskey was in the kiss, just enough to send a shock of pleasure straight down Doug's spine. But he focused on the way she parted her lips and let him explore her mouth, on how good it felt to press her against the shadowed marble wall with the length of his body. She whimpered quietly and put her hands on either side of Doug's face, and he ground himself against her instinctively. Doug felt himself go hard and wondered whether Nell noticed, wondered whether she was repulsed, and he suddenly felt like a middle school boy kissing his crush.

He pulled away, stumbling back a step and swiping the back of his hand at his mouth. He cleared his throat roughly and glanced around to ensure no one had seen what he'd just done. Nell stood up stick-straight and fumbled with her hair, dabbed anxiously at her smeared lipstick, and muttered,

"I'm so sorry. I… I'm just going to go home. I shouldn't have -"

"Nell."

She met his eyes, her breath shaking audibly, and her eyes glittered with half-formed tears. "I'm already in deeper water than I ever intended, Mr. Stamper. I'm just a girl from Alaska who came to Washington to get some valuable experience. I don't want -"

"Nell," Doug said again, so softly he could barely hear his own voice. A triad of giggling collegiate interns swept by, all of them clearly having imbibed a few too many of the free drinks. Doug gritted his teeth, waiting for the interns to pass by, and then he locked eyes with Eleanor Simon. She had managed to pull herself together during the brief interruption, and the resolute look of determination had returned to her young face. Doug frowned and said, "I'll take you home."

"I took the Metro here. I'll be fine."

"I don't want you riding the train alone at night in a dress like that," Doug said honestly, though he knew he must sound like an overprotective father. Unsurprisingly, Nell quirked up half her mouth and rolled her eyes.

"So it's a better idea to go home with the  _boss_  who just kissed me?" she demanded. She shook her head vehemently. "I'll be fine."

Doug suddenly felt every last trace of his earlier enthusiasm vanish. He'd been explicitly instructed by the Underwoods to keep Nell Simon close, but he'd kissed her and in doing so had apparently sent her flying away from Underwood's control. The entire negotiation with her father might slip through their fingers like sand if he didn't act quickly. Doug thought quickly, formulated the most diplomatic response he possibly could, and his voice was cold and matter-of-fact as he said,

"I'm sorry. It was… terribly inappropriate of me to kiss you. I misjudged our interactions, and I misinterpreted the signals you were sending. I apologize. Stay safe on your way home. I'm going to go make an appearance at a few of those conversations down there."

He started to walk away, but he heard Nell say firmly from behind him,

"You didn't misinterpret anything, Doug. I'm just scared, and I hate being scared. It's not a feeling I'm very familiar with. It's not a feeling I want to get used to having."

Doug turned back around, staring from the balustrade into the dark corner where he'd kissed Nell. She emerged from the shadows and gestured down at her elegant form. "I'm wearing a borrowed dress. I paid someone to put my makeup on and do my hair. It's all a costume, and I feel like I'm still desperately pretending that I belong in this world."

Doug thrust his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "None of us actually belong in this world," he insisted. "Frank Underwood is the closest thing to a natural I've ever seen. But most of us? We're pretending just as hard as you are. And the costume looks damned good on you."

Nell smoothed the front of her dress and stared straight into Doug's eyes as she said plainly, "I don't want to go home alone tonight."

"Okay," Doug nodded. "I need to make some small talk with a few of the right people, and then we can leave. Meet me by the valet in twenty minutes."

* * *

Doug pushed open his front door and stepped nervously inside, suddenly grateful that he was neurotic about keeping the place so immaculately clean. Nell stepped in behind him and Doug shut the door. They'd decided to come back to his place since Nell apparently had extra clothes in a duffel bag under her desk.  _Just in case_ , she'd said, and that had made Doug uneasy for some reason. But they were here now, at his house in Arlington, and he walked rather stiffly into his living room and said,

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Nell said, shaking her head. Doug gestured to his couch, and Nell perched herself on the edge. She brushed a few bits of lint from the green gown and said in a self-effacing voice, "I was terrified enough of spilling whiskey on the dress at the reception. I've got to make sure I choose a good dry cleaner before I get this back to Mrs. Underwood."

"I'll give you the name of my guy," Doug promised. He unbuttoned his own suit jacket and pulled it off, draping it over the back of the couch. Nell stared up at him as he moved, her eyes glittering like brown bottle glass. Doug sniffed as he yanked at his tie and rolled up his sleeves, and he carefully considered what next to say to Nell.

The final twenty minutes he'd spent at the reception had been a blur. A few surface-level conversations with Frank's more powerful constituents, with a couple staffers, and then he'd found himself driving Nell to Virginia. To what end, Doug had no idea. Half of him knew that if he slept with Nell tonight, he could ruin everything. She'd stared at him like a deer in headlights after he'd kissed her. She was confused. She was uncertain of how any of this would affect long-term political calculations. Well, that made two of them. But the nearer they got to Doug's house, the less he cared about politics.

"Maybe I should just go ahead and hang it up," he heard Nell suggest, and Doug snapped from his reverie and furrowed his brow. Sensing his bewilderment, Nell rolled her eyes and clarified, "The dress. Maybe I should just hang the dress up so I'm not worried about it anymore."

"Oh." Doug nodded absently. "Okay."

Then Nell was standing slowly and facing away from him, murmuring something about a zipper. Doug ignored her and stared at the lean expanse of her back. Something made him reach out and ghost his fingertips down from the nape of Nell's neck to the middle of her spine. She shivered and a little sound escaped her mouth. Doug felt an electrical shock of want surge through him, and he impulsively leaned forward. He cupped Nell's shoulder with his left hand and drew his fingers down her back again, and then he bent to press his lips to her neck.

"Doug," Nell whispered, and Doug grunted softly in response. Nell reached back and pulled Doug's mouth more firmly against her neck, urging Doug to touch her again. But then she said, "Help me out of the dress, will you, please?"

Doug did, his fingers shaking fiercely as he unzipped the gown. Nell pulled her arms from the sleeves and stepped from the dress, and when she turned around, Doug could scarcely breathe. She wore no bra, only the smallest g-string, and a pair of black stilettos. She strode rather confidently away from Doug to the coat closet, pulling out a hanger and nestling the borrowed gown safely in the closet. She walked back to him, and Doug suppressed a vocal sound at the sight of her. Her breasts were small but perfectly round, pert and shapely. Her belly was flat and soft; her hips had just the slightest hint of a womanly curve. She showed none of the self-consciousness she'd had earlier, and now her brown eyes glowed with heat. Nell moved to kick off her shoes, but Doug said,

"Leave them on."

She did as he commanded her, but she wore a petulant smirk upon her face. Determined to replace her cheeky grin with clenched eyes and desperate moans, Doug stepped up to where Nell stood. He trailed his fingertips down her ribcage to her waist and yanked her toward him, leaning down and crushing her mouth with his. His fingers dug into her hips as he pulled her hard against him, grinding his erection against the thin material of her underwear.

Nell cried out against Doug's mouth and asked in a frantic whisper, "Bedroom?"

"Not yet." Doug shook his head firmly, feeling more turned on by the moment as she slowly yielded to his will. He'd been entranced by Nell Simon in an unexpected and rather unnerving fashion, and he needed to reestablish control. Doug wrapped his fingers around Nell's wrists and growled against her lips,

"You want this, right?"

The last thing Doug Stamper needed was a twenty-something staffer fresh out of the gate making claims against him. Nell nodded quickly and Doug watched her pulse flicker in her neck for a brief moment. He latched his mouth to the spot where her heartbeat was visible, lathing his tongue against her smooth skin and dragging his teeth beneath her ear. Nell gasped and tried to reach her hands up, but Doug held fast to her wrists by their sides.

He stepped backward until his thighs hit his couch, and then he collapsed onto the cushion. He began fumbling with his shirt buttons and stared up at Nell - at the shape of her body, at her hard nipples and her rumpled hair and her swollen, shining lips. Doug's shirt, bow tie, vest, and undershirt all soon joined his jacket on the back of the couch, and then he moved his fingers to his waistband.

"Do you have a condom?" Nell asked rather awkwardly, and Doug nodded. It had been a while for him - too long, if he was honest, but he always kept a stash of rubbers in his bedside table. He rose from the couch and gestured clumsily to Nell to follow him.

Five minutes later she'd rid him of his pants and they were kissing madly atop Doug's perfectly-made bed. He was throbbing, in his head and between his legs, pulsing and aching to  _take_  her. Finally, after a long while of high school-style petting and making out, Doug reached for the drawer of his bedside table and pulled out a condom. His hands shook so badly as he unwrapped it that Nell finally seized the foil package and tore quickly. Doug lay flat on his back and stared up at the ceiling, wrenching his eyes shut when he felt Nell rolling the condom onto his aching cock. Then there was a wet, warm, pleasant squeeze, and his eyes sprang open to see Nell sinking onto him.

She tipped her head back and let her mouth fall open, moaning wantonly and holding onto her calves as she swiveled her hips slowly. Doug reached up and fondled Nell's small, perfect breasts, his hips bucking up of their own accord in response to the feel of her. She was soft, and smooth, and just curved enough. Her moans rasped through the quiet room, and Doug ground his teeth together in a desperate, futile attempt at silence.

Suddenly Nell stilled her hips, reached to take Doug's hands in her own, and let her chin fall to her chest. A breathy, guttural gasp escaped her lips, and Doug felt her walls clenching rhythmically around his shaft as she came. He watched in amazement, his heart thudding and his skin prickling as she whispered his name a few times. He seized her hips tightly and yanked her down hard, bucking his hips up with each pull. Nell moaned desperately and collapsed forward onto her hands, leaning down to kiss Doug as he thrashed himself up into her.

Doug felt his balls pull up against his body, felt energy shooting out through his fingers and toes as he came. It was over quickly, a brief but powerful explosion of pleasure, and then he was left with ringing ears and panting breath and a tingling sensation of satisfaction.

He cleaned himself up and got rid of the condom, and when he came back to bed, Nell had tucked herself nude beneath the blankets. Doug climbed into bed and shut off the lamp, wordlessly urging Nell to lie her head on his bare chest. He stared at the wall for an hour and listened in the dark to the sounds of passing cars. It was well past midnight when his phone beeped with a text message notification. Doug pulled the phone from the table beside him, careful not to disturb Nell, and read Frank Underwood's message.

_Lots of pressure at me tonight from the Catawba, SC paper mill owner. Reflects industry sentiment. We need to move on opening up lumber._

Doug hesitated before responding. He flicked his eyes down to Nell's peaceful face, marveling at how she looked like she'd been sculpted from marble. Doug sighed through his nose and dragged the fingers of his left hand over his close-cropped, graying hair.

_Good but complicated news re:Simon land. We will meet to discuss tomorrow. You can count on 200,000 acres._

Doug smirked a bit as he mentally added in the details of the bargain-basement price for the land, the fact that Nell herself had talked her father into a deal, and the conditions of the sign-over. But the response from Underwood was swift.

_I'm not sure I want to know how you managed that. Exercise caution w/Nell Simon until deal is through._

Doug felt a nervous twinge in his chest then, but in the interest of loyalty and full disclosure, he quickly typed,  _She's sleeping on my chest right now._

There was a strangely long delay before Doug got any answer, and he started to feel anxious that he'd angered Frank Underwood. Doug was thirty seconds from texting again when his phone lit up with a message.

_Please don't get anything disgusting on my wife's dress. See you tomorrow._

* * *

"Morning, Nancy." Doug pushed the door to Frank's office open with his hip, sparing a nod to the secretary as he strode over the threshold. He held out a steaming cup of coffee to the congressman, and Frank rose to take it. As Doug sat in the chair opposite his, Frank said,

"Thank you. I do hope you got Ms. Simon some caffeine, as well."

Doug did not answer, choosing instead to flash Frank a small smirk and sip at his hot drink. The truth was that Nell had left Doug's house before five; she'd disappeared in a borrowed pair of flannel pants and a sweatshirt and had presumably taken the Metro back to her own home. When Doug had come into the office this morning, she'd already been at her desk, and appeared freshly showered and made up and was wearing a skirt suit. Doug hadn't brought her coffee.

"There's a constituent funeral at Arlington National Cemetery today at two. I was asked by the young man's mother if I'd attend."

Doug raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. "Who died?"

"Master Sergeant Daniel Pinkston of Gaffney. His father is a locally beloved preacher. The man was thirty-two years old. Gunshot wound."

Doug frowned and sipped his bitter coffee. He hadn't heard any news of war deaths in the past week. "Iraq or Afghanistan?" he asked.

"His own bathroom, with a handgun," Frank answered solemnly. Doug sniffed once and nodded. There had been far too many veterans in his 12-step program with mental scars that frightened even Doug Stamper. Veteran suicides were a terrible tragedy, but ultimately not a surprising one.

"I don't want to make a circus of the man's funeral," Frank Underwood was saying, and Doug was struck by the unusual lack of bite in the other man's tone. Frank shook his head and said, "If there's anything worse than skipping a funeral where your attendance is requested, it's bringing along people whose attendance isn't wanted. So it'll just be Claire and you and me. We'll leave at one."

Doug nodded his assent. "I'll clear my afternoon."

"Now, what exactly is the situation in Alaska?" Frank asked pointedly. Doug cleared his throat roughly in response and kept his face impassive.

"Like I said, Frank, Nell Simon is no bimbo. She figured out pretty quickly why you poached her. She knows full well that you'd blacklist her career if her father doesn't play ball. So she convinced him to sell two hundred thousand acres. Well, 'sell' is a generous word. They want five-twenty-five total."

"Five hundred and twenty five million dollars?" Frank seemed skeptical, and Doug shook his head firmly.

"Thousand. Shepherd Simon bought the land up in the 80s because of clearcutting. It wasn't an investment."

"But if the man wanted to protect the land from corporate interests, why didn't he sell it to the National Parks?" Frank narrowed his eyes, causing deep creases to form at his temples. Doug sipped his coffee and scoffed.

"Congress has something of a track record when it comes to selling off national forest land. It wouldn't have been protected permanently. His sale price is just to cover Nell's immediate financial needs. The sale comes with the stipulation that the forest be harvested in a manner Shepherd Simon deems 'sustainable.'"

Frank Underwood leaned back in his swivel chair and tented his fingertips, pressing them to his lips. "Two hundred thousand acres," he repeated thoughtfully, and Doug nodded. A half-smile came over Frank's face as he said, "That still leaves three hundred thousand open for later consideration. His asking price is ludicrously low. Please contact Shepherd Simon and let him know we couldn't possibly broker a deal for less than five million to him. Tell him to donate the 'extra,' if he wants, to environmental charities. That's still a bargain, and it's the price I will report to the paper executives."

"I'll try and get him on the phone as soon as possible," Doug nodded, and Frank surprised him by laughing aloud.

"Just have your little squeeze call up her daddy," Frank said, and Doug felt sick when the other man winked across the desk. Doug tried to smile, but instead wound up grimacing.

"I shouldn't have taken her home," he said quietly, finishing his coffee. Then, rising from his chair, he told Frank, "I'll have Claire's dress dry-cleaned and delivered to the townhouse. One o'clock we're leaving for Arlington, yeah?"

"That's right," Frank said. Doug tossed both empty coffee cups into the trash before he excused himself.

* * *

The funeral was dour. All funerals are dour, of course, but this one felt  _particularly_ dour. The only people gathered at the gravesite were the dead soldier's parents, his wife and infant daughter, his brother, the honor guard, a military chaplain, Doug Stamper, and the Underwoods. The brief graveside service consisted of a few prayers, a few Bible readings, a rendition of "Amazing Grace" that was thin and reedy with communal tears, and the chaplain droning on about light coming from darkness. The decedent's father, the 'locally beloved preacher,' was apparently too overcome with grief to speak. There was a rigidly structured gun salute, a solemn rendition of "Taps," and then the casket was lowered.

Doug and the Underwoods came and went without ever saying a word to the man's family. Doug couldn't have felt more out of place if he'd tried; standing beside the man's bereaved family was akin to physical torture. It made his skin crawl. When the rain started pounding around the SUV on the way back to the Hill, Claire Underwood said from the backseat,

"At least the rain waited until they buried him."

"They bury soldiers all day. The rain got someone else, I'm sure," Frank answered her tightly. Doug flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror, and he saw Claire nod slowly.

"It's always raining somewhere," she mused. And that was it. That was all any of them said of the whole occasion. Back in the office, Frank mumbled something to Doug about getting the family some flowers and a card, and Doug spent ten minutes with Nancy hunting down addresses and florists and jotting down a quick message. Then he resolved not to think about the unnerving funeral for the rest of the day, and he didn't.

Later, he sat at his desk and opened up a PDF on his computer, a long-form bill that was lost in committee. The proposed law would exempt certain sulfide mining activities from aspects of the Clean Water Act. Doug read through the bill several times in its entirety, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the myriad side implications of the bill. He shut his eyes as he realized he had a fully capable resource on the matter right in Underwood's office. He opened his eyes and flicked them down through the long, narrow office. At some desks, staffers chattered away on phones. Other desks were empty as staffers and interns attended various meetings or sat in on committee sessions. But Nell Simon was there, staring at her computer screen and brushing her thumb over her lower lip. She had her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and Doug watched her for a solid minute before he called out,

"Nell, can you come here for a minute, please?"

She visibly startled at the sound of his voice, and then she flew to her feet and composed herself. She tugged at the hem of her pencil skirt and walked briskly through the office to where Doug sat. She put her fingers on the edge of his desk and nodded expectantly. Doug jerked his head toward his computer screen.

"Did you see the bill on sulfide mining?"

"That's what I was just reading," Nell said. She pinched her lips in a straight line, and when Doug nodded encouragingly, she said, "It's a desperate ploy by Minnesota Democrats to win over the blue-collar vote in the northern part of the state. The mines to be affected by the bill's exemptions aren't built yet - they're only proposals. If the exemptions are granted, the mines will get built. If there are no exemptions, then there won't be any mines. The problem is -"

"Jobs. Seven thousand for the whole region." Doug nodded thoughtfully and scratched at his neck. He frowned.

Nell huffed angrily and pressed on. "The company pushing for these mines is Chilean. They openly admitted that more than half the jobs would be 'non-local,' and at least a quarter would be commuters to the rural area from Duluth. This isn't an injection of jobs into a depressed area; it's wholesale condemnation of otherwise thriving waterways, forests, and ecosystems. The economic cost of such destruction is real. The underground mine was only shown to be 'marginally profitable' in a pre-feasibility study. When the mines were proposed, there were thousands of messages sent from ordinary Minnesotans regarding them. Ninety-eight percent of respondents were vehemently opposed to the mines. If the Democratic Members of Congress push this bill to appease a few thousand rural constituents, they risk losing the support of exponentially more voters in the process."

"It's getting a lot of bipartisan support," Doug noted. "It affects mines in Michigan and Wisconsin, too."

"Yeah, well… it needs to get a lot of bipartisan rejection," Nell said rather fiercely. Doug felt his eyebrows fly up, surprised not only by Nell's extensive background knowledge on the bill, but also on her ferocious opposition to it. He nodded once and said,

"I'll pass your advice along to Congressman Underwood."

"Okay." Nell put her hands on her hips and glanced at the wall clock behind Doug. "It's six-thirty. I'm going home. Would you mind…" she lowered her voice and glanced furtively around before leaning forward a bit onto Doug's desk. He felt his heard thud as she whispered carefully, "Would you mind bringing Mrs. Underwood's dress back tomorrow? In a garment bag? I need to have it cleaned."

"I'll do it," Doug reassured her, just as he'd done to Frank. He tapped his pen cap on his desk and stared at it. Then he said, "You left your earrings."

He pulled them out of his trouser pocket, placing them carefully on his desk and pushing them toward her. He watched her fingers curl around the little golden earrings, watched her tuck them away in her own pocket, and heard her murmur,

"Sorry."

She didn't mean she was sorry for leaving the earrings behind. Doug could tell exactly what she meant from a single word. She was sorry she'd gone home with him. Sorry she'd slept with him. Doug's feelings weren't exactly hurt; he'd never had a terribly serious relationship, and many one-night stands had ended with one or both parties apologizing. He hadn't been expecting anything more or less than a 'sorry' from Nell the day after taking her home.

But as she walked away from him, he felt a sickening twist in his stomach, and he decided it was about time for him to go home, too.

* * *

Nell Simon had been completely right about the sulfide mining bill. Further research indicated widespread lack of support for the proposed mines that would benefit from the bill's exemptions. It took some serious swaying of a representative from Michigan, but in the end the bill failed to leave committee, much less come to a vote on the House floor.

Doug spent the next week on conference calls with Frank and Shepherd Simon, usually with Nell in the room. Figures and buzzwords were thrown about, and then it was decided that two hundred thousand acres would be sold to two paper companies in North Carolina for a total of five million dollars. Shepherd Simon agreed to keep $1.5 million, but he insisted he was going to donate the rest to the NRDC.

"Hopefully that news guides some of your decision-making in the future, Congressman Underwood," Shepherd Simon said at the conclusion of one call. Frank smirked down at the speaker, and Doug was suddenly glad Nell was on a lunch break.

"You'll be glad to know, Mr. Simon, that your daughter was  _very_  effective in convincing me about the importance of squashing a bill regarding sulfide mining and water safety. She's quite the tree-hugger, your Nell." There was prolonged silence on the end of the line, and Frank looked up at Doug with a nervous shrug. Frank curled his lip up and asked with feigned friendliness, "Mr. Simon?"

"My lawyer will be in touch this week with the team from the paper mills. I appreciate the fact that we could come to an amiable solution on this, Mr. Underwood. I hope my daughter does good work for you for a very long time."

Doug suppressed a little smile, instead forcing a frown as he realized from where Nell had inherited her firecracker brand of diplomacy.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Simon," Frank Underwood said, almost too smoothly. His drawl contrasted rather distastefully with the pure northern vowels on the other end of the line. Frank's voice was more syrupy than ever as he said, "I'm glad everyone could benefit from this. I think this is a wonderful situation for everybody. Have a great night, sir."

"Goodbye, then." There was a  _click_ , and just like that, Nell's father hung up the phone. The operator informed the men that the call had been disconnected. Frank met Doug's gaze with cold eyes.

"So my paper mill constituents will be happy enough, but now I'm stranded with Nell Simon in perpetuity."

"I think she does a great job," Doug insisted softly. "She's been whipping the hard left on the budget for the past week. She's gotten us seven votes in the past couple of days. She's -"

"Have you spoken with her since the night of the reception at the Library of Congress?" Frank's voice was light and airy, and he touched his index finger to his lips thoughtfully. Doug scowled. He respected Frank deeply, and he confided in the man with every detail necessary to their political dealings. But he felt his cheeks flush hot at this question, and he shook his head vigorously.

"About professional matters. That's it. It was a one-time mistake."

Frank turned and stared out his window at the gently falling spring rain. Doug watched, fascinated, as the man blew hot breath onto the window so it fogged up. Then he wiped the sleeve of his very expensive suit jacket on the glass, and his reflected eyes met Doug's.

"You've been distracted since that night, Doug."

"I've been busy," Doug insisted, but he knew Frank was right. He'd thought often of his dalliance with Nell. He'd often found himself staring at her across the office. Sometimes she would glance up and meet his eyes, but most of the time she either didn't notice him staring or pretending that she didn't see. Either way, she was distracting Doug.

"You've always been busy," Frank pressed relentlessly. He turned round with his hands in his pockets. "Now you're distracted."

"I apologize. Maybe I can move my desk," Doug suggested, his voice a stumbling murmur. But Frank shook his head and smirked wickedly.

"You wanted her, so you took her. There's no mistake in that, Doug. Do you still want her?"

Doug stared at Frank Underwood for what felt like an eternity. The rain outside fell harder, so hard that Doug could barely hear his own voice when he whispered, "Yes, I do."

"Then, by all means, take her," Frank instructed, his voice suddenly jovial. He gestured out toward the staffers' office and grinned. "No shame in being persistent, Mr. Stamper. But I can't have you distracted by unfulfilled lust."

Doug stared at the rug, feeling embarrassed as his ears rang. He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides and nodded. "I'll let the paper mill lawyers know they should be expecting a call soon from Shepherd Simon's guy. And I'll prepare a press release so we have it ready the minute the ink's dry on the legal docs."

"That sounds perfect. Thank you, Doug."

* * *

"Aw,  _man!"_

"Shit. You've got to be kidding me."

"The  _entire_  Red Line?"

Doug glanced up from a complicated sponsorship proposal to see sudden upheaval in the staffers' office. His phone buzzed frantically on the desk before him, and as he skimmed through his email he noticed the message that had triggered the outrage.

_ATTENTION ALL CONGRESSIONAL MEMBERS AND STAFF - Due to a disabled train, the WMATA has shut down the Red Line Metro in both directions. Please make alternate arrangements to get home from Capitol Hill this evening if necessary._

Doug felt a strange leap in his belly when he realized the implication of the news. He glanced up to see staffers frantically calling cabs, arranging for shared rides, and checking for alternative public transportation. He drummed his fingers on his desk as Nell Simon stalked over. She shrugged and asked quietly,

"Any way I can bum a ride off of you, Mr. Stamper?"

Doug thought long and hard about his response. He narrowed his eyes a bit and said simply, "I'm not going to Maryland tonight. My car's going to Arlington."

Nell peeked over her shoulder at the chaos of scrambling staffers. No one seemed to be paying her and Doug any mind. She nodded sharply and said to Doug, "Arlington will be just fine."

"I need twenty minutes." Doug turned back to his computer screen and pretended to be interested. Nell went back to her own desk and began packing up her briefcase.

The first few minutes of the car ride were awkwardly silent, until Doug got jammed into rush-hour traffic and realized they would be in the car for a while. He tightened his fingers around his steering wheel and kept his eyes straight ahead as he asked,

"Why are you coming home with me? Why didn't you ask the blond kid from Yale for a ride? He lives in Silver Spring."

"His name is Peter," Nell said tightly. Doug knew the kid's name; he just couldn't be bothered to say it. But Nell moved on, gazing out the passenger window as she said, "I had no idea what to say to you after that night, Doug. I couldn't tell if you'd used me to manipulate my father, if I was just a player on yours and Frank Underwood's chess board. So I backed way off, let all the forest stuff settle, and I re-evaluated."

Doug smirked a bit at Nell's indomitably logical line of thought, and he pushed himself to ask, "And when you re-evaluated, what did you find?"

Nell sucked in breath and then huffed it out. She turned to stare at Doug, and he briefly took his eyes from the road. It wasn't as though the car was moving, anyway. He raised his eyebrows expectantly at Nell, and at last she said softly,

"I think you're a really interesting person, and I have no idea why. I don't know what your favorite color is. I don't know if you like football, or where you grew up. I don't know if you've ever been married, or why you started working for Congressman Underwood. And, frankly, I'm not sure if I want to know the answers to any of those questions. I have no idea why I find you so attractive, or why I feel compelled to talk to you and touch you. It's really, profoundly fucked up, I think. So… I don't know. I don't know why I was really excited that the Red Line was shut down and I finally had an excuse to get with you again. I'm not proud about it."

She turned the dial on the radio to raise the volume on the jazz station, and she crossed her arms over her chest and glared out the windshield. Doug frowned deeply, wondering whether he was supposed to debase himself by screwing a younger woman who was so confused. He cleared his throat roughly and reached to turn down the radio again. He eased off the brake and the car moved fifteen feet forward before traffic stopped again.

"I moved to Washington from Ohio because I'm an ambitious person. I started working for Frank Underwood because I admired his ambition. And I think you're an appealing woman because you're ambitious. And I don't really care why you want to touch me, because I like when you do and I'll take whatever I can get from you. I like football. I've never been married. I don't remember your other questions."

There was a long pause as Doug eased the car forward again, and then he heard Nell mutter, "Favorite color."

"Gray," Doug said simply, and she chuckled beside him.

"Gray?" she repeated. Doug scowled at her for a moment. She erased her grin as much as she could and said in mock seriousness, "I shouldn't be surprised. Dependable. Serious, mature, and stable. Doug Stamper - the gray man. I like it."

By the time she finished speaking, her voice was very solemn indeed. She folded her hands in her lap and said gently, "You're sexy, Doug. It's really annoying during the day when I'm trying to work."

Doug didn't say anything in response to that, because he couldn't figure out for a long moment whether or not Nell was mocking him. He pursed his lips and focused on the traffic. Beside him, Nell hummed along with Thelonious Monk on the radio, and Doug felt a buzzing warmth spread through his limbs at the sound of her voice. After a long while, Nell spoke again. The sound of her words startled Doug from his pleasant trance.

"My dad emailed me today and said that he's signing papers with his lawyer tomorrow. I wanted to let you know and make sure you've got everything prepared for the paper companies and the affected communities. It would royally suck to have gone through all of this and not have Underwood get the political credit."

Doug flicked his eyes from the road to Nell, feeling flush with gratitude for the early warning. He nodded once. "I appreciate the heads-up," he said honestly.

"Also, I met with a guy from Bob Birch's office today. Birch wants Underwood to co-sponsor a bill to inject funding into the U.S. Army Intelligence Museum at Fort Huachuca in Birch's district."

"What reason would Underwood have to do that?" Doug asked briskly. His real question was why the Arizona congressman had met with Nell to discuss the matter.

"Birch is trying to get a diverse group of military-related reps involved. Active-duty veterans, of course, and it helps that Underwood attended The Sentinel. But I think it's just his position as Whip. Birch thinks it'll help the bill pass."

"I'll think about it and pass it on," Doug said. Nell nodded, and then she murmured,

"I don't want to talk about work any more tonight."

"I wasn't the one who brought up work," Doug reminded her matter-of-factly. "I would have been perfectly content to drive all the way home listening to you hum along with the radio."

Nell was quiet again, and then she asked, "Can I order some food to your house for dinner? I feel bad that you're giving me a lift…"

"I'm not giving you a lift. I'm taking you to my house so that I can be indecent with a coworker," Doug said simply. He ignored Nell's little snort of laughter and pulled his wallet out. He held it out to her and said, "Use the Visa in there and order a pizza."

"What do you like on it?" Nell asked, and Doug shrugged.

"Whatever you want."

Out of his peripheral vision, Doug saw Nell start to take out Doug's credit card from his wallet. Then her fingers paused and she put the card back.

"Probably should wait to order it," she said thoughtfully. As she set Doug's wallet down on the center console, she jerked her head to the stop-and-go traffic. "Who knows how long it'll be before we even get to your house?"

"That's true," Doug nodded. There were a few more minutes of quiet, oddly comfortable, and then Nell reclined her seat a bit and started humming along to the radio again. Doug felt his chest tighten once more at the sound of her pleasant voice, struggling to keep his eyes focused on the tail lights of the minivan in front of him. He was utterly unprepared for the feel of Nell's left hand reaching over to unfasten his belt buckle.

He said nothing as her hands opened his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He kept his eyes straight ahead as his zipper gritted downward and Nell reached to cup her hand around his hardening length. But his breath came quick and shallow through his nostrils and his knuckles went white on his steering wheel, and Doug grunted quietly as Nell's hand started pumping slowly up and down his cock.

"You're going to make me rear-end this stupid minivan," he warned Nell, easing his own car forward ten feet before stopping again. She laughed wickedly, low and rumbling, and Doug gasped a bit when he saw her head vanish. There was wet warmth around him then as she lowered her mouth onto his manhood, and Doug instinctively bucked his hips up against her. "Nell…"

He was gasping, moaning, writhing in his driver's seat as she licked and sucked. The drivers around him, each as stuck in traffic as Doug was, had to have noticed the way his mouth had dropped open and his hands gripped the steering wheel for dear life. But Doug didn't care who saw. All he cared about was the way Nell's mouth felt on him, the little whimpers that vibrated straight from her lips onto his skin, the tickle of her hair on his hips. He struggled to keep control as he eased the car forward in traffic, and as he braked again, he said through clenched teeth,

"Fuck, Nell… stop,  _stop_ , I'm going to -"

"Good. Do it," she murmured against him, quickening the pace of her hands and mouth on him. Doug impulsively put the car into park in the gridlock, tipping his head back and wrenching his eyes shut as he came. His seed jetted forth, hot and insistent, and his body trembled and tingled. Nell dutifully lapped up the mess and buttoned Doug back into his pants, leaving his shirt untucked as she sat back up into the passenger's seat.

"Better put the car back into drive," she noted matter-of-factly, gesturing breathlessly out the windshield to how the van in front of them had started moving again.

Doug jerked at the gear shift, his mouth open in shock as his ears thudded. He tore his disbelieving eyes from Nell and watched the road, hearing her chuckle wickedly beside him as the traffic began to break up.

"I'll go ahead and order that pizza," she said after a long while. "Is sausage and mushroom okay?"

* * *

Three nights later, Doug Stamper lay in his bed and stared at the blank space beside him. She had been there - Nell - just a few nights before. He had held her through the night when he hadn't been making love to her. They'd risen early in the morning, dressed for work, and Nell had taken the Metro from Arlington into work in time to don the change of clothes she kept in a desk drawer.

Doug had spent the past three days embroiled in meetings with Bob Birch's team to discuss the merits of Underwood co-sponsoring the Army Intelligence Museum bill. The meetings had taken a hostile turn in the past twenty-four hours, and Doug was more tired than he remembered being. As he sank into bed, he stared at the ceiling and remembered the feel of Nell on top of him, the feel of being inside of her, the feel of her mouth on him.

Tonight, even so far removed from all of that, he could feel her on the mattress and smell her on the sheets. Ginger and cedar and fresh rain. She smelled like Alaska, or at least what Doug imagined Alaska must smell like. Doug rolled over and switched off the light and tried to fall asleep. It didn't work; his mind was full of little snapshots of her, flashes and clips of her moving and laughing and talking. He got out of bed and watched an hour of television, but really it was just an hour spent sitting on the couch with his eyes trained blankly on the screen. His mind was on Nell.

He took a shower and tried not to touch himself when he remembered the sight of her soaping off in there. He toweled off and stared at himself in the mirror, seeing Nell's ghostly reflection behind him in the glass. Finally, Doug tore the towel from his waist and uncharacteristically tossed it to the ground in a crumpled heap. He stormed naked into his bedroom and ripped the charger from his phone, bringing up his contact list.

_Eleanor Simon._

He stared at the text box for a long time, watching the little blinking cursor as it taunted him to write a message. Somehow, Doug kept his thumbs off of the keys, knowing full well that it would do more harm than good to text Nell at midnight. It would seem desperate. Doug Stamper was many things, but he was not desperate. To distract himself, Doug started drafting a text to Frank Underwood.

_The problem with Birch's guy is that he seems to think everybody in the House works for Birch. He needs to be put in his place._

There was a long pause before a response beeped in. Doug read the reply from Frank and felt his eyebrows fly up.

_Doug, I refuse to believe you're perseverating on the Ft. Huachaca bill at this time of the night. Please assuage your distraction by giving Nell Simon a call._

Doug pursed his lips, angry that Frank Underwood, as always, could read him like a book. Doug opened up the text box to Nell again, but then he changed his mind and rather impulsively pressed the green 'call' button beside her name. It was 12:04 am. He didn't much care.

_Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring._

She wasn't going to pick up. Or, if she did, she would be furious that he was calling her just a few hours before she had to get up for work. Doug pulled the phone away from his ear, about to hang up, but then he heard Nell's tired voice on the other end of the line.

"Doug? Is everything all right?"

"Ehhh… Yes. Hello. Nell."

"Doug?" Nell's voice sounded warmer than Doug had ever heard it, and he felt a tightening in his chest as he shut his eyes and gulped. He felt like an utter fool, and it was a profoundly uncomfortable feeling. His embarrassment was compounded when he heard Nell ask carefully, "Doug, you haven't been drinking, have you?"

"No." Doug shook his head, even though Nell couldn't see. His voice suddenly regained all its lost confidence, and he licked his bottom lip before he said quietly, "My bed isn't the same without you in it. I liked it the first time you spent the night here. I liked it even better the second time. I'd like it if you would go to dinner with me tomorrow and spend the night here again, please."

There was a deafening silence on the other end of the line, and Doug's heart hammered in his chest. Then he heard Nell huff out a soft laugh, and she said, "Italian at seven-thirty sounds great. I look forward to seeing you then, Mr. Stamper."

_Click._

Doug set his phone down on his bedside table with a trembling hand and climbed naked between his sheets. His hand continued to shake fiercely as he obeyed the desire coursing through him and touched himself. As he lay spent and tired, he realized that he was more interested in Nell Simon than in any woman he could ever remember. The problem was that Nell Simon wasn't just some random hookup; she was political capital. And, if Doug was honest with himself, he wasn't just interested in her. He was enamored with her, and in men like Doug Stamper, such feelings quickly devolved into dangerous obsession.

But as the black night swirled into pleasant, sated sleep, Doug Stamper found he didn't much care about danger.

* * *

"You're going to kill me."

"I am?" Doug raised his eyes and tapped his pen on his desk as he flashed Nell a skeptical look. She chewed on her lip as she folded her arms over her chest and glanced nervously around the office. Doug felt his eyebrows crumple. "What is it?"

"I can't go to dinner," she whispered, and Doug tried to keep his face completely impassive despite the disappointment coiling in his stomach. He had, admittedly, been looking forward to dinner with Nell that night. He'd made a reservation at Tosca for 7:30. He'd washed his sheets and had put a fresh bottle of shampoo in his shower. He'd made sure there was a new condom in his bedside table drawer, and he had fully geared himself up for a highly enjoyable evening. So it was with thinly-veiled irritation that he set down his pen and lied,

"Not a problem. Something come up?"

"I forgot that the interns' last day is today," Nell shrugged. "There's a going-away party this evening. You know, cake and pizza. I'm staying on, obviously, but I have to say goodbye to everybody. And, honestly, Doug, you should -"

"Yeah, I had forgotten. I usually skip because of the…" Doug trailed off, licking his lip and feeling his cheeks go hot. The intern farewells usually involved entirely too much alcohol. It was one of Doug's sobriety strategies to avoid parties with that much booze, so even as Frank Underwood's chief of staff, he generally didn't attend the little soirees. Besides, he couldn't care less about saying 'bon voyage' to Peter from Yale. More like 'good riddance.'

Nell shifted where she stood in front of Doug's desk and shrugged. "I don't have to stay that long," she said rather uncomfortably. "Can you move the reservation a bit later?"

"It was hard enough to get it for 7:30," Doug said, shaking his head. "We'll go another time. It's fine. I'll make an appearance at the interns' party, and -"

"That isn't necessary," Nell insisted, and Doug felt his cheeks flush again with a bit of humiliation. He pursed his lips and fiddled with the pen on his desk as he murmured,

"I'm not a kid, Nell. Don't need your permission. I'll be there for a little while. We can make plans for another night, okay? I've got a meeting in twenty minutes and I'm not quite ready for it, so…"

"Yeah. Okay. Sorry." Nell nodded quickly and shuffled away, and Doug gulped heavily as he watched her go back to her desk. He watched her sit, watched her pull out a folder from her leather briefcase. He watched her put on a pair of cat-eye glasses, realizing she usually wore contacts and that he hadn't known that about her. He watched her pore over a few documents and then start typing on her computer. She knew he was watching her, but she pretended not to care. Doug watched for so long that the twenty minute window before his fake meeting came and went, and eventually he started doing something else entirely.

The afternoon flew by, with Doug flitting in and out of Frank Underwood's office as the two of them discussed a new bill on sub-saharan African trade incentives. All the while, the departing interns made steady gains on packing up their desks and bags, looking morose as they discussed what was coming next for them. Doug overheard one young woman remark that she was "sort of looking forward to" returning to Dartmouth for the spring semester. Another young woman said she'd already graduated Clemson, and had lined up a job with the Department of Agriculture in Columbia. Peter from Yale was apparently heading back to New Haven to start law school. And Nell would be staying right where she was, by far the most successful twenty-three-year-old in the room because she wasn't being kicked out.

Soon enough, Nancy Kaufberger came bounding into the office and barked, "Six o'clock, everybody. Party time."

She announced the festivities in such a matter-of-fact tone that even Doug Stamper smirked, shutting down his computer and packing up his briefcase with a bit of a smile at the woman's salty demeanor. The occupants of the office grumbled and chattered as they made their way through a few corridors. Nancy Kaufberger led the brigade into the elaborate gilded meeting room where the painted ceilings were decorated with heroic murals, where shimmering crystal chandeliers cast shadows upon the gleaming floors, and Doug flicked his eyes to Frank Underwood.

"If I must partake in pizza and cake, I'm going to do so in an elegant space, Mr. Stamper," said Frank, and again Doug felt the corners of his lips curl up. He set his trench coat down on one of the fine leather chairs and startled as Nancy Kaufberger pressed the play button on the stereo in the corner. Loud jazz music started blaring, and Frank Underwood began to nod rhythmically in approval. The doors in the side of the room opened and a few pizza delivery men walked in as though cued by the music, their arms laden with steaming boxes of pizza. Doug rolled his eyes; Frank Underwood was nothing if not dramatic. The pizza was quickly swallowed up by the twenty-something staffers, all of whom acted as though they'd never eaten before. Then the cake was brought in. It was a fluffy white concoction upon which colorful frosted letters spelled out,

"BE FREE, LITTLE BIRDS."

Everyone laughed at that as they sipped from their cups of Captain and Coke and gnawed on their food. Doug chewed slowly on a slice of cheese pizza, drinking a Diet Coke as he discussed the African trade bill with Underwood.

"You know, you've got a real problem with the GOP guys who only want commodities from Africa they can't get here. Diamonds and gold and coffee? Shit they can't grow in their own backyards, but that they want themselves? Yes. Get that stuff out of Africa. No embargoes, no tariffs, right? Problem is that the diamonds, the gold, the coffee… that stuff only comes from certain countries. Ghana, South Africa, Sierra Leone. And it's not exactly conflict-free, a lot of it. Then you look at other countries that are growing, that are doing a really good job trading in a neighborhood, and what are they exporting? Sugar beets and cane. Wheat, even, but to Asia, you know? Not to, um… not to…"

His voice had trailed off, because he was completely distracted by the way Nell Simon was engaged in a laughter-filled conversation with Peter from Yale. Doug paused with a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth and stared at Nell, and jolted when he heard Frank Underwood say in an amused voice,

"Yes, Mauritius trades a good deal of sugar products to South Asia. Much closer economic zone to them. We don't exactly want their sugar. But they're doing just fine, aren't they, Mr. Stamper? Mauritius seems to be doing much better these days."

Doug set his pizza down on a paper plate and put the paper plate on the table in front of him. He swallowed hard and shoved his hands in his pockets, forcing himself to look at Frank. He felt his cheeks go hot as he nodded and said,

"Yeah. In any case, I think you're going to… to have to convince the guys from Louisiana, Florida, you know… that these countries aren't just giant gold and diamond mines. That their foodstuffs might actually be…"

"You're not really making much sense, Doug." Frank Underwood narrowed his eyes and tipped his head, taking a big bite of pizza and slowly chewing and swallowing it. Doug shut his eyes for a moment, trying to think back over what he'd said. Frank was right, of course. Doug had rambled about the African trade bill like an idiot. He opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could, Frank said, "That blond intern is leaving, you'll remember. Today is his final day of indentured servitude in our office. That's why we're all here enjoying this gourmet cuisine, isn't it?"

"She was supposed to be at Tosca with me tonight," Doug said quietly, opening his eyes and looking back to where Nell stood. She was by the window with the blond kid, with Peter. They were engaged in an animated conversation, and Nell gesticulated wildly as she seemed to be telling some story or another.

"She's just being polite," Frank said in a surprisingly reassuring voice from beside Doug. "She's a born politician. You know that. She's remarkably skilled at changing her behavior to seem likable in various situations. I watched Peter walk up to her and engage her. She lit her eyes up like flashbulbs for him, to seem likable, because that's what politicians do. She plastered on her pretty little smile for him, because that's what politicians do. And she's talking to him with much more enthusiasm than she would prefer to use, because that's what politicians do. But I would bet you a hundred dollars that she'd rather be at Tosca than standing here eating cheap pizza."

Doug lowered his eyes, deciding he didn't want to subject himself to any more analysis by Frank Underwood. He turned away from the scene at the window, giving his back to Nell and Peter and jamming his hands harder than ever into his pockets.

"Who else is going to co-sponsor?" Doug asked in a harsh voice. He picked up his Diet Coke and swigged, pretending with a back corner of his mind that the drink was liquor. He watched Frank Underwood quirk up an eyebrow, watched the other man chew and swallow pizza thoughtfully, and then Frank said,

"Jackie Sharp and Ted Havemeyer are the ones who came up with the idea. In the Senate, it'll be bipartisan with Vukoja and Cuthbert co-sponsoring. My name won't be on it; all I've got to do is crack the whip. This is going to look good for us if we can hold hands across the aisle. It'll reek of bipartisan feed-the-world, Live Aid crap, you know… Doug, you're staring again."

Doug hadn't realized that as Frank was talking, he'd turned over his shoulder and had begun gazing at Nell again. He whirled back to Frank so quickly that his Diet Coke sloshed all over his white dress shirt.

"Fucking hell," Doug mumbled, setting his drink down on the table and looking around frantically for a napkin. He heard Frank muttering something to a passing intern about soda water, and Doug felt his cheeks go hot as he snatched his suit coat off the back of a chair and yanked it onto his shoulders. He buttoned it to cover the place where the cola had blotched his white shirt, and he finally raised his eyes to see that Frank Underwood was giving him a haughty smirk.

"A good woman will make you blind, deaf, and clumsy, Doug," Frank said. "She'll make you swear like a sailor and forget what you were doing. There's nothing in the whole wide world like a good woman to ruin your whole damned day. I'm at once elated and infuriated that you've managed to find one for yourself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get a piece of that cake before the frat boys finish it off."

Doug stood in humiliated silence as Frank nodded and made his way over to where the cake was being cut. A skinny Asian woman walked up to Doug and thrust a tumbler of carbonated clear liquid at him. Doug frowned, confused, until he realized the woman was one of the interns and the liquid was club soda. He mumbled a thank you and dabbed a napkin into the liquid, fixing his shirt while the cake was doled out to party guests. He'd managed to get most of the Diet Coke from his white shirt when he heard a soft voice from beside him.

"Yellow cake or chocolate?"

Doug glanced up to see Nell Simon there, holding up two paper plates of cake. One had a slice of chocolate cake and the other yellow, and she balanced them back and forth like the scales of justice as she flashed him an inviting smile. Doug felt queasy all of a sudden, and he lowered his eyes to the tumbler of club soda he held.

"Uh… I'll take whichever one you don't want," he said seriously, and Nell laughed.

"Okay. You get chocolate." She pushed the plate out to him and stabbed a fork into the cake, and then she began to devour her own piece of cake with gusto. She still had half a mouthful when she asked, "You don't want to drink club soda, do you? Want some more Coke?"

Doug flicked his eyes to the glass he'd spilled, which lay mostly empty and abandoned on the table. He shook his head and set down the club soda, taking small bites of the cake as he glanced around the room. The departing interns were taking photos with one another now, and shaking the hands of more senior staffers, and exchanging contact information.

"Did you make sure to get Peter from Yale's phone number? Or are you guys already Facebook friends?" Doug asked, and he immediately regretted doing so. He looked back to see a fleeting expression of hurt in Nell's pretty eyes, which quickly vanished as she painted a look of indifference over herself. She shrugged and smiled.

"I'm pretty sure if I showed up in New Haven, I'd be able to find him," she said breezily. "His father's on the university board, you know? I'm sure you've heard... He doesn't really let anyone forget it." She rolled her eyes and laughed as she took another bite of cake, and Doug thought to himself that Nell was very good at defusing tension. She was also very good at not telling people who her own father was, Doug thought. Nell was very good at standing on her own two feet to climb the ladder of power, where Peter from Yale used his daddy for leverage.

Doug breathed in deeply as he tried not to look too closely at Nell Simon. But that didn't help him too much, because the room was starting to smell very strongly of the beer and rum that the interns were imbibing, and when Doug inhaled, the scent of alcohol filled his nostrils like a tempting invasion. He shuddered and said to Nell impulsively,

"I think I'm going to head out."

She glanced around and, as if she'd read his mind, her eyes landed on the glass bottle of beer in Peter from Yale's hands. She frowned and glanced down at her paper plate of cake and nodded. "I'm really glad I don't have to go to law school, or to work for a state-level government office, or anything like that. I'm really glad that I get to stay here and whip votes. I'm really, really glad. You understand?"

Doug met her eyes, watching as she pulled her fork up to her mouth and put it between her lips. She dragged the plastic tines back out through her lips, and Doug shuddered at the sight, at the glitter in her eyes. He nodded numbly and heard himself whisper,

"I'm glad, too." Then he smelled the beer and the rum again, heard Peter from Yale laugh obnoxiously at something, and he shifted where he stood. "I'm going to head out," Doug said again, and he watched Nell set down her plate of cake.

"I've got a duffel bag with me today," she said in a low voice, sending a spike of unidentified feeling up Doug's spine. "I'd thought we were going to dinner. Can… can you wait fifteen minutes for me in your car?"

Doug felt his mouth fall open, and he nodded quietly. "Yeah," he said finally. "I'll be in the garage."

* * *

He stared at his steering wheel for a long while, listening to the sound of his own breath going slowly in and out of his nostrils, until the passenger seat buzzed and he glanced over to see his phone screen had lit up. Doug picked up his phone to see a bubble that read  _ELEANOR SIMON._ He swiped his fingers a few times and opened the message.

_Got corralled by Underwood. I'm waiting for him in his office. Something about the Africa bill? Be there soon. Sorry._

Doug felt angry all of a sudden. Frank was doing this on purpose. Frank knew full well that Doug had made plans with Nell, that he would try to salvage a hookup. There was no universe in which Frank Underwood  _needed_  to speak with Nell Simon about the African trade bill  _tonight_. So Frank Underwood was fucking with Doug, plain and simple. And it was, undoubtedly, very amusing to Frank Underwood to know that Doug Stamper was impatiently waiting alone in his car.

_No problem_ , Doug texted back to Nell, his fingers smashing the screen of his phone so hard he barely got the letters out.  _See you soon._

It was another ten minutes before it occurred to Doug to occupy himself by reading the news on his phone. He brought up a few different Beltway news sources and saw that there had been a cargo ship wrecked off of Brazil, that a bread riot had happened in Egypt, and that there had been severe flooding in China. Doug, ever the Washington insider, viewed each news story through the lens of politics, of course - what each story meant from the perspective of American foreign policy. He scrolled down to the comments sections and beheld the wild ignorance there for a while to amuse and disgust himself. Then he listened to some quiet classical music, and he saw on his clock that it was 8:15. Frank Underwood had tied up Nell's attention for over an hour. Doug felt his veins boil with anger as he rapped on his steering wheel for a moment. Then he jolted, because the passenger door opened unexpectedly. He looked over to see Nell yanking herself up into the car, tossing her duffel bag onto the floor of the passenger seat.

"Ugh," Nell huffed, shaking her head as she pulled on her seat belt. "Sorry about that. Underwood wanted to know what I thought about the African trade bill. We started talking right after you left about the reorientation of sub saharan trade toward non-traditional trade partners - specifically India and China. I started explaining what this means from an environmental perspective, especially given China's notoriously lax environmental controls, when we're talking about African raw materials exports to the East. The Congressman had me wait in his office and he came in, started taking notes… anyway, it went on for a while and I'm sorry."

Doug put the car into drive, feeling at once impressed and alarmed at what Nell had just said. He swallowed heavily and pulled the car out of the garage as he asked, "So where did you leave it with him?"

"You know, he's working with the California Representatives to draft the bill, and I told him it would be smart to suggest a few environmental provisions given this trade reorientation. Being aware of the fact that these countries rely on China to reduce export and output volatility, but rewarding environmental wisdom with tax credits, reimbursements, stuff like that."

Doug felt a twinge of unease as he pulled out onto Washington Boulevard. "And what did Underwood say to that?"

Nell laughed quietly and stared out the window for a long moment before she answered. When she spoke, her voice was such a good imitation of Underwood's that it pulled a smile right onto Doug's mouth. She huffed and drawled, "' _If, as a Democrat, I can't give tax breaks to the American populace, how on Earth do you suggest I give them to Africans, Miss Simon?'"_

She laughed again and turned up the radio, humming along to the recording of Verdi that was playing. Doug listened to her gentle humming instead of the orchestra as he drove. Every now and then, they talked for a few minutes about the African trade bill, or about how silly Peter from Yale was and how they were both glad he'd be gone, or about how bad the pizza had been at the party. Finally they settled into a peaceful silence for a while, and Nell went back to looking out the window again.

"You were drinking Diet Coke at the party," Doug noted after a while, and Nell answered,

"So were you. Well, that and club soda."

"The club soda was for my shirt, because I spilled Diet Coke down my front," Doug noted with a little sniff. He stopped at a red light and glanced over to see Nell staring very deliberately out the windshield. Doug pursed his lips and continued, "You could have had a beer, or a rum and coke like everybody else."

"I kind of hoped I might be kissing you later tonight," Nell admitted. She jerked her head up at the green light, and Doug reluctantly returned his eyes to the road as his stomach fluttered in response to what Nell had said. She kept talking as he drove. "I didn't think it was probably a good idea for me to smell or taste like booze."

Doug gnashed his teeth together a bit, feeling unexpected irritation. "I kissed you at the South Carolina party, at the Library of Congress. You tasted like whiskey that night," he said. "I don't need you to babysit… you can go ahead and…" He trailed off, feeling his ears ring and go hot. Beside him, Nell sighed deeply.

"Does it matter, Doug? I like Diet Coke."

Doug pulled his car into his own driveway then, pressing the button on his sun shade to open his garage door. He pulled into the garage and closed the door again as he shut off the car. As he stepped out of the car and heard Nell following him, he couldn't manage to shake the defensive anger that had developed in his core through the night. This was all Frank Underwood's fault, Doug thought. Or maybe it was all because he and Nell hadn't been able to go out to dinner together. In any case, it was all to do with work. He needed to go inside and take off his suit and put on something soft and comfortable, to sink into a comfortable piece of furniture.

Doug instinctively started to yank at the tie around his neck as he walked through the door that led into his main living space. He flicked on the light and muttered, "Can I get you anything?"

"Doug."

He turned around at the sound of her voice, for she sounded cross and firm, and it surprised him. She shut the door to the garage behind her, and when Doug turned around, Nell set down her duffel bag and crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged.

"I'm sorry we couldn't go to Tosca for dinner. But when you called me last night, it wasn't just about dinner.  _My bed isn't the same without you in it._  That's what you said to me, at 12:04 in the morning. And I had a Diet Coke because I wanted you to taste me. So let's stop dancing around all of this, okay? Kiss me, please."

Doug didn't need to be asked twice to do that. He set down his briefcase and closed the gap between himself and Nell, pulling her face toward his and feeling her soft skin under his calloused fingers. He had on his gray plastic glasses from driving, and as he crushed his face down to Nell's he felt the glasses slip awkwardly down his nose. His teeth crunched against hers and his hands squeezed too hard on her waist, and suddenly Doug felt like an inexperienced middle schooler. He quickly put himself to rights and steadied himself against her, pushing her back against the door to the garage to steady them. She had on a beige trench coat that Doug quickly pushed open, parting her lips with his and thrusting his tongue into her mouth as his hands searched her body.

She didn't taste like Diet Coke. She tasted sweet and warm and he wanted more of her. He sucked at her lip and dragged his tongue over the roof of her mouth, and suddenly he felt so hard between his legs that it almost hurt. On instinct, he thrust his hips against Nell's, and she moaned softly into his mouth. That only made him feel more on fire, and he found himself dragging her by her waist as he growled, "Bed. Now.  _Now._ "

Somehow they made it in there, made it into his bedroom, and she started yanking off his suit jacket and his tie and his shirt. Her hands felt like warm satin on his bare chest, and Doug's breath grew shallow and quick as he moved his mouth to Nell's slender neck. She cried out when he sucked at her skin, not caring (and maybe glad) that he was going to leave marks. Her little fingers fumbled blindly with the buttons at his waist, and he reached down to help her as he kissed her some more.

Then she was touching him, stroking him, and he thought he might come in her hand and end it all. He was embarrassed, at his age, to feel so stimulated by a simple touch. But he couldn't help it. She was beautiful, he thought. She was smart. She was funny. He wanted her, every inch of her. He wanted her to smile for him, to kiss him, to put her hands all over him.

Her clothes fell to the floor in little crumpled heaps, one piece at a time, until she stood before him in just a white cotton bra and a pair of black panties. Doug almost laughed at the fact that Nell hadn't bothered with fancy underthings, since she'd apparently anticipated getting down to her skivvies. But, then, that wouldn't be the Eleanor Simon way. Utilitarian underwear was far more her style, Doug knew. And he liked that about her, he thought as he unclasped the cotton bra and tossed it aside. He liked her no-nonsense method.

He snared his fingers in her dark, wild curls and brought her in for another kiss, dragging his rough hand across her smooth back as he did. Nell sighed against him and Doug managed to get her down onto the bed, hovering atop her as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of the black underwear. He yanked them down and she shimmied out of them, reaching between them to wrap her little fingers around Doug's length with one hand as her other hand trailed over his chest. Doug shivered and mumbled something unintelligible as he wrenched his eyes shut and tried to stay steady where he leaned on his arms. He tried not to collapse down onto her thin body, to melt right into her, but it was almost too much when he heard her whisper,

"Look at me, Doug."

He did. Somehow he managed to open his eyes, trying to ignore the way she was dragging her hand smoothly around his cock. He bucked his hips forward on instinct as his eyes met hers, and he watched her pulled her teeth over her bottom lip. She arched her back a little and her small breasts heaved up closer to Doug as she said,

"The whole first month I worked for you, you didn't notice me. You didn't know or care that I was around because you were too busy. Are you too busy for me now, Mr. Stamper?"

She was teasing him. She was tormenting him, and it was too much. Doug growled a bit as he reached with one hand down between them and grabbed Nell's hand off his throbbing manhood. He wrenched her hand up above her head and snatched her other hand up to meet it. He used one of his hands to pin both her wrists onto his pillow, and he relished the way she squirmed under him in response. He shifted slightly off of her and leaned onto his hip, letting his fingers ghost over her downy, wet entrance as he said in a dangerous voice,

"Don't mock me, Nell. I didn't know there was anything to notice for the first month that you worked for me." He watched her hips writhe and jerk as he caressed her, felt her get even more warm and wet for him. He tried to keep his breath and voice steady as he glared at her desperate eyes and continued, "I'm not too busy for you now. Right now I'm busy with this… I'm busy with you."

He pressed harder against her body, his fingers pulsing insistently as she cried out and ground her head against the pillow. Her hands grabbed at the sheets and he knew she was close. Her breath came hard and fast, sending her breasts heaving. The sight of her there on his bed, in a frenzy from his touch, made Doug dizzy and warm, and he found himself whispering her name a few times as she hurtled closer to finishing for him. Then, out of nowhere, her body clenching around his fingers as she grasped the blankets and dug her face into the pillow. Her muffled voice howled against the pillowcase as she came down from her high, and Doug had the good sense to pull his drenched fingers from her and wipe them on sheets he knew would need washing.

"Are you clean?" she asked in a breathless whisper, and Doug frowned. He nodded, feeling confused, until he realized she must be on the pill and would only need a condom if Doug had not been tested. He had been, as it happened, and hadn't been with anyone else for a while anyway. Seeming reassured, Nell reached for Doug's shoulders and panted as she tried to pull him back atop her body. He let her do it, climbing back above her as he guided himself into her body.

She was warm and tight and deliciously slick, and Doug had to pause for a moment as he sheathed himself within her. He touched his forehead to Nell's and felt her arms slither around his neck as he collected himself. She said nothing, but the sound of her quiet breathing was enough to calm Doug's anxious heartbeat. Finally he moved, circling his hips against hers. He moved slowly, deliberately, relishing the feel of her body as he pumped himself into her over and again. The snug fit of her warm sheath around him was too much. He accelerated his thrusting, leaning down to crush his mouth against hers again.

She tasted sweet and she gripped his shoulders as her quiet moan vibrated against his lips. That was enough for Doug. Everything exploded at once - a sudden descent into cold darkness, then a blast of hot white noise as tingling pleasure reverberated through Doug's veins. He felt himself pumping into her, felt the mess leaking out all over his sheets, and he didn't care. He just kept kissing her, tasting her, breathing in the smell of her and listening to her whisper his name when he finally pulled away.

He lay on his back for a long time, staring up at the ceiling and catching his breath. He felt like an old man for the first time in a while, dragging his fingers through his sparse gray hair as the young and beautiful Nell curled up against his chest. Her hair tickled his face, and he twirled a curl around his finger as he breathed in deeply. Ginger and mint and lemon… she smelled clean, but of course he knew he'd made her dirty.

"You want a shower?" Doug asked, hearing his voice crack a bit in the quiet room. He felt Nell's head nod against his chest, and he said, "There are towels in the bathroom. I'll go after you."

Nell moved away from him, slithering from the bed like an alluring serpent and smiling at Doug as she disappeared into the bathroom. He watched her go and listened to the sound of the shower starting up - the familiar judder of the hot water coming through the refurbished old pipes. She hummed quietly as she washed up, knowing full well that Doug was listening, and he shut his eyes as he imagined her in there soaping herself off. She was a vixen, he thought. A little tease. Nothing more.

But of course she was much, much more. She was wickedly intelligent, with a biting sense of humor and what seemed to be a rather caring personality. She had a determined work ethic. She even liked the same sorts of films as Doug. He'd found that out on the drive home. And she'd had Diet Coke to drink instead of beer because she knew he was an alcoholic and she wanted to kiss him. And she cared about him.

Some force pulled Doug out of his bed then, compelling him to leave the blankets rumpled as he stalked naked toward the bathroom door. He pushed the door open, grateful that she'd left it unlocked, and he hovered in the threshold for a minute until she turned off the taps. He watched her thin hand reach out from behind the shower curtain and grab a sea foam green towel off the rack. The towel disappeared behind the shower curtain, and Doug smirked. She knew he was there. He made no effort to cover himself, nor to move from the doorway.

The shower curtain was peeled back, and there she was, as resplendent in the claw-foot tub as Boticelli's Venus in the scallop shell. She twisted her damp curls to rid them of water and stepped out from the tub, clutching the pale green towel more tightly around her torso. She smiled warmly and flicked her eyes up and down Doug's naked body. He might have felt self-conscious, being a stringy man in his mid-forties with a beautiful young woman before him, but he instead felt a surge of confidence. He shifted where he stood and said in a quiet voice,

"My t-shirts are in the second drawer from the top. If you're cold."

Her smile grew crooked then and she nodded. She brushed by him through the doorway, kissing his shoulder as she went by and sending a fresh shock of want up Doug's spine.

"I have pyjamas in my duffel bag," she said. Doug nodded, making his way into the bathroom for his turn at the shower. But then he heard his dresser drawer opening, and he turned around to see Nell rifling through his t-shirt drawer. He suppressed a smile at the sight of her picking through worn old shirts, especially when she extracted a maroon one from his undergraduate alma mater.

"University of Chicago?" She cocked a suspicious eyebrow at him and shook her head as she pulled it onto her body. She tossed her towel aside and muttered, "You have no idea how much resolve this takes as a Stanford alum, Doug…"

"Yeah, I have some idea. You guys and your damned tree." Doug shook his head and turned on the shower taps as he grumbled, "Leave the color mascots to Harvard, Syracuse, and the University of Chicago, huh, Stanford?"

Nell didn't answer him, and as Doug climbed into the shower, he glanced into his room to see that she was snuggling back into the bed with a smile on her face. Doug savored the warm water on his skin, the way the soap washed away sweat and grime and sex. He liked to feel clean, and after he scrubbed his skin he took a moment to appreciate the pleasant stream of hot water on his back. He shut his eyes and breathed in the smell of his soap, jolting when he heard the sound of his phone ringing.

The sound got closer, and Doug flung back the shower curtain when he realized Nell was dashing into the bathroom with his cell phone in her hand. She flicked her eyes from the screen of Doug's phone up to his face and said breathlessly,

"It's Frank Underwood."

Doug put his hand on the shower tap, prepared to turn off the water and take the call. But then he remembered the way Frank Underwood had deliberately corralled Nell away from Doug for over an hour earlier tonight. Doug sighed and closed the shower curtain, and he said firmly to Nell,

"Answer it before it goes to voicemail." There was a split second of hesitation, and Doug heard his own voice bark harshly, "Answer it, Nell."

She cleared her throat roughly then, and even over the sound of the running shower, Doug could hear her feigned confidence as she answered the phone.

"Good evening, Mr. Underwood. This is Eleanor Simon."

Doug's heart thudded in his chest as Frank said something to Nell. Doug stared at the grout between the tiles on the wall as he waited for Nell to speak again, and when she did, he heard the humiliation in her voice.

"No, Mr. Underwood. This is Mr. Stamper's phone."

There was more silence then, and suddenly Doug realized just who he'd played by having Nell answer the call. Doug suddenly slapped at the tile wall, feeling more angry than ever, and he turned off the water and stood in silence as the air around him grew cold.

"With Mrs. Sharp from California? Yes. Of course. Eight o'clock. I will be there. And I'll be more than happy to relay the meeting time to Mr. Stamper, though of course I assume you'll want to coordinate availability with him individually. He's actually right here; would you like to speak with him?"

More silence then, and Doug shivered a bit in the empty shower as poor Nell laughed rather awkwardly and said,

"You too, Mr. Underwood. Good night."

Then Doug's phone appeared on the other side of the shower curtain, thrust toward him by Nell's ghostly hand. Doug hesitantly took the phone and brought it up to his ear.

"Hello," he said cautiously.

"Is she your secretary now?" Frank Underwood asked in an amused drawl. He was drunk, Doug could hear. The man had had at least three or four tumblers of bourbon. Doug pinched his lips and sighed quietly.

"Something about a meeting with Jackie Sharp tomorrow at eight o'clock?" Doug asked, injecting a gentle tone into his words. Through the connection, he heard Frank Underwood's rumbling, low laugh, and then the other man said,

"Yes. I think it would do us well to have the two ladies discuss unmet hydroelectric potential in Angola, don't you? At the very least, I don't think Ms. Simon's presence at a meeting with the Californian representatives would hurt. She could… I don't know, take notes? Since she seems so good at answering phones and performing other such secretarial tasks."

Doug swallowed hard and slid his foot back and forth in the little puddle of water that remained in his tub. "Is there anything else you need tonight, or should I just plan on seeing you at the meeting at eight tomorrow?"

"I'll see you both at eight tomorrow," Frank said, sounding unnaturally happy. "Make sure Ms. Simon's got something clean to wear, will you, please? It wouldn't do for her to come in the same outfit she had on today."

Over the phone, Doug could hear Frank take a drink of something - there was the sound of a gulp, of ice clinking on glass, and then the sort of refreshed sigh a person emits after a large swig of liquid. Frank Underwood was most certainly finishing off one of the liquor bottles from the intern party, Doug thought. That consideration coupled with what the man was saying about Nell was enough to make Doug more angry than he'd felt in a very long time.

But Doug needed to stay in Frank Underwood's good graces, or everything he'd worked for was dead in the water. So Doug shut his eyes and said,

"Have a good night."

_Beep._  He pressed the red END button without another word to Frank Underwood. He peeled back the shower curtain, his apology to Nell ready on his lips.

* * *

"Jackie Sharp cancelled. Her flight out of Sacramento couldn't get off the ground last night… too much lightning." Doug pursed his lips as he explained the situation to Frank Underwood, watching as the hungover congressman washed down a few aspirin with a swig of coffee. Underwood frowned deeply and glanced at the clock, which read a quarter to eight, and he drawled,

"She didn't have the decency to give us enough lead time on the cancellation so that we could all stay in bed this morning, hmm? Well, thanks for nothing, Ms. Sharp. Contact her office, Doug, and get this meeting rescheduled for as soon as possible. Whenever it stops storming in California and Jackie gets herself out here, I want this meeting to happen. This trade bill is going to have a nifty little bipartisan ribbon wrapped around it. My name might not be on it, but I want handprints all over the wording, and I want people to know I was involved. Set up the meeting."

Doug nodded, giving Underwood a small nod as he turned to go from the office.

"Oh, and, Doug?" Underwood said, prompting Doug to turn back around and cock an eyebrow. Frank Underwood pulled himself up from his chair and dragged his fingers over his undoubtedly-aching forehead as he said in an overly-diplomatic tone, "I do apologize for calling your phone so late last night. It was rude of me to do so, and I certainly did not intend to intrude."

Doug felt his cheeks go hot, but he cleared his throat raggedly and curled up his lip as he shrugged. "It was no big deal," he insisted. "I'll get that meeting sorted out with Sharp's office today."

"Very good. Thank you, Doug."

* * *

Doug tapped his pen on his desk as he read the document on his computer screen. He leaned back a bit in his chair, pulling his left ankle to his right knee, and pushed his plastic glasses up his nose.

_The U.S. Army Intelligence Museum at Fort Huachuca has no gift shop in the manner of many other history-based tourist attractions. The Museum has no intention of establishing a gift shop, so revenue to fund operations must be derived from alternative sourcing. Though Fort Huachuca may be considered a relatively remote location for a military intelligence museum, the specific location's importance can not be overstated. For example, the Museum hosts an impressive collection of cryptographic equipment, much of which was utilized during World War II by Navajo "code-talkers." The near descendents of these important veterans live close enough that…_

Doug let his eyes drift away from the screen long enough to see that Nell Simon had risen from her desk and was striding across the office toward him. The place was almost completely empty; Doug and Nell had been working for a few hours with only Nancy Kaufberger around the corner and a lone young staffer who had earbuds in. The spring interns had all gone, and their replacements hadn't yet arrived. It seemed as though that might be the very matter Nell was coming over to address, for when she stepped up to Doug's desk, she plopped a few manila folders down and said brusquely,

"This is the fresh blood. I know you said to just narrow it down, but I worked with Underwood and with Nancy and did the interviews over the last few weeks. You've been busy enough… hell, you didn't even notice I was here until a month in. I figured this was something that needed to be delegated. I hope I didn't overstep."

Doug frowned deeply as he flicked quickly through the manila envelopes. One by one, impressive résumés flashed before him. A young Mexican-American man entering his senior year at Northwestern University, where he was studying international relations. Raúl Villarreal, his name was. He was also president of a Chicago branch of Big Brothers Big Sisters and had volunteered for the Special Olympics.

There was a recent Barnard graduate whose senior thesis had been entitled, "Intelligence: Kissinger, Pinochet, and State Terror in the Southern Cone." There was a pre-law Clemson student who looked downright unimpressive, until Doug realized she was the daughter of South Carolina's wealthiest chemical processing entrepreneur. Finally, there was a Charleston resident studying at Princeton, whose litany of academic accomplishments made Doug's head whirl.

He snapped the last manila folder shut and took his glasses off, rubbing at his tired eyes for a moment before he finally looked up to where Nell stood waiting. He stared at her for a long moment, thinking back to the way she'd put herself together at his house this morning for work. Her hair was swept back into a tight chignon, and Doug could still see her standing in his bathroom pulling pins from her teeth and jabbing them into her hair. His fingers tightened on the manila folder he was holding and set it down, and he swallowed hard as he said to her,

"These are all good. Thank you for taking care of it."

"It's not a problem," Nell said simply. "Make sure you let me know when you get the meeting with Jackie Sharp rescheduled, will you?"

Doug nodded quickly, chomping his lip and shutting his eyes for a second as he realized he'd forgotten to copy Nell into his email thread about it all. "It's at nine-thirty tomorrow," he said.

"Our office or theirs?" Nell asked lightly, and Doug met her dark brown eyes as he handed her back the folders.

"Theirs."

Nell took the folders and nodded. "I might go make myself a cup of tea. Do you want anything?"

She asked that question with significantly more tenderness than she'd addressed the matters of business. Doug felt his mouth fall open, tried to answer her, but before he could, she said,

"Black coffee and a croissant. I'll bring it to you."

She did, ten minutes later, and when she set the steaming cup down before him, Doug felt compelled to ask,

"Are you busy later tonight?"

Nell looked surprised, and she glanced around the room as if to check whether anyone else was listening. Doug frowned -  _as though he would ever ask her out in front of other co-workers_ \- and when she turned back to him, things got worse.

"I actually am busy. I'm sorry," she said softly, sounding as though she meant it. She gave him a nervous little look and said, "I'm playing Harry Potter trivia at a bar with a group. Our team is called  _Yer a Quizzard, Harry._  Get it?"

Doug didn't get it, because he was an entire generation removed from Nell. But he curled his lips up with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and he said in a tight voice, "That sounds fun. Some other time, then."

"Yeah." Nell nodded firmly, and she tapped the edge of the manila folders on Doug's desk in farewell as she turned and strode back to her own work.

* * *

"I'd like to buy a vowel."

"Go ahead."

"E."

"There are no 'E's. I'm sorry."

Doug chuckled as he watched the late-night replay of  _Wheel of Fortune._  So few words - let alone phrases - in the English language were devoid of the letter E, but this bumbling idiot had wasted $250 to find that out. Doug swigged at his water and set the glass down on his coffee table as he heard the next contestant say,

"N!"

"N! There are three of them!" said Pat Sajak, and the female contestant excitedly clapped her hands while the elegantly aging Vanna White pretended to activate computer screens.

"I'd like to solve the puzzle… ' _Firstborn Son of a Gun!'_ "

There was a great cacophony on the screen then as the woman's guess was confirmed as being correct and as she was told she got to keep twelve thousand dollars and a trip to New York. Doug aimed his remote control at the TV and jabbed his finger onto the power button. It was past midnight and he was more tired than he was used to being. So he pulled himself from his couch, yanking the zipper up a bit further on his gray hoodie as he yawned. His black sweatpants would do for pajamas tonight, he thought, and he resolved to collapse straight into bed after brushing his teeth. But just as he was spitting out toothpaste, there were about eight thudding knocks on his front door.

Doug tossed his toothbrush down and dashed out toward the front door, hearing more insistent knocking as he went. He glanced through the peephole, concerned by the urgency of the knocking, and he was shocked to see a disheveled-looking Nell Simon on his front porch.

Doug wrenched the deadbolt to the side and threw the door open, and the second he took Nell in he could tell she was completely drunk. She stood before him in a half-assed witch costume - a plaid skirt and white button-down, a burgundy-and-gold tie that hung loosely around her neck, something that appeared to be a black high school graduation gown, and a pair of knee socks with loafers. She swayed where she stood and flashed Doug a wild grin as she came staggering past him over his threshold. She reeked of booze, and Doug shut the door as he tried to find the right words to say to her. Finally he rubbed his forehead and said quietly,

"Not that I'm not happy to see you, but is there a reason you've decided to come here, wasted out of your mind with no change of clothes, after midnight on a weeknight?"

For a split second, Nell looked genuinely hurt as she narrowed her glassy eyes and pouted. But then she seemed to remember something, and as she rifled through her purse, she slurred,

"I told the cab driver I lived in Virginia. Which, you know, I don't. I live in Silver Spring, Maryland, but I wanted to come here, because I wanted to show you, Doug… look! We won! We got first place!  _Yer A Quizzard, Harry_  got first place and we all got these fucking awesome blue ribbons. I'm like a pig at the state fair, huh?" She yanked a cheap, crumpled polyester ribbon from her bag and held it up proudly. Doug took it from her and glanced at the embossed gold lettering that said  _FIRST PLACE_ , and then he handed it back and said flatly,

"Congratulations. You must know an awful lot about Harry Potter to beat out a bunch of other millennials at drinking trivia about it."

She laughed at that, far too loudly, and she crumpled backward against the wall of the foyer as she said in a dreamy tone,

"Oh, God, you're right, Doug! There are  _so many people_  who fucking love Harry Potter, you know? And, like, know a  _lot_  about it!"

She shut her eyes, and Doug felt irritated as the smell of whiskey came rolling off her in waves. He put his hands on his hips and opened his mouth to speak, but Nell looked up at the ceiling and said again,

"So many Potter-crazed millennials. You know who was there? Peter from Yale! Yeah! He was there. He didn't leave yet, I guess. I said hi, but I was, like… three Long Island Iced Teas into the night and he was getting  _way_  too friendly, so I headed right back over to my loyal teammates, and -"

"What do you mean, he was 'getting too friendly?'" Doug felt his ears go hot and ring, and he took a step toward Nell. He tried not to look menacing or angry as he hovered a few inches above her, but he felt more than a bit angry when she giggled up at him. She cupped his jaw in her hand and dragged her thumb over his scruff, and she teased in a sloppy whisper,

"Mr. Stamper, are you getting possessive?"

He was. He knew he was, and he didn't have any right to do so. They weren't a couple. They weren't dating. But the very thought of Nell drunkenly flirting with another man, feeling that that other man was being so forward as to warrant cutting off the conversation entirely… it was enough to make Doug feel dizzy. He closed the distance between himself and Nell and tipped her chin up as he lowered his lips to hers.

She tasted like everything Doug wanted - like fried food and alcohol and just like herself - and he ground himself against her as he started to go hard. But when she moaned into his mouth, Doug yanked himself away and staggered back a step. He was about to ruin it, to ruin what little scrap of something he'd started with her. He dragged his wrist over his lips and said, as gently as he could,

"I need to get you home. In the morning, you're going to be really mad at yourself when you realize that you came here. And then you're going to be mad at me. If you stay here and I lay a finger on you while you're this drunk, you will despise me and I wouldn't blame you for that. So, come on, Nell. I'm taking you home."

He reached for the hook by the door and snatched his car keys, and he slipped on sneakers before leading Nell out to his car. The whole ride to Maryland was quiet as she drifted in and out of drunken sleep against the passenger window. Doug kept his eyes straight ahead, and as he pulled into her apartment complex, he heard her grumble,

"I'm sorry, Doug."

"Don't be. I've done things when I was drunk that were a lot more damaging than this. Trust me."

There was silence for a moment as he pulled his car into a parking space, and Doug thought he was going to have to carry her sleeping into her own apartment building. But then she mumbled, "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Doug said, turning off the car and pulling his key from the ignition.

"Be so fucking cold - like, ice cold - and effective at what you set out to do, and ruthless, and determined… I mean, you've got tunnel vision about  _everything_ … how do you manage to do that and still make me fall in love with you?"

Doug froze with his hand on the car door handle. He furrowed his eyebrows, very sure he'd heard her wrong. But then he cleared his throat roughly and glared at where she was slumped against the window.

"You don't know what you're saying," he informed her crisply, "and I'm not going to remind you in the morning. Come on. Let's go inside."

His earlier uneasiness with their age difference came back in full force when he went into the elevator with her, for another person came in with them. The other young woman pressed the button for the 7th floor, and Nell exclaimed in a wild voice,

"Oh, my God! That's the same button  _I_ needed. I also live on the 7th floor!"

The other woman in the elevator gave Nell a strange look, shook her head, and said to Doug, "Nell lives three doors down from me in 702. She's obviously  _really_  out of it right now, but she'd know me any other day of the week. Does she know  _you_?"

It was a pointed question, intended to make sure Doug wasn't dragging some incapacitated young woman to her home with ill intentions. He scowled, first at Nell and then at the other woman, who had thrown up an eyebrow accusingly. Doug said calmly,

"Yeah. We know each other. Thank you for worrying about her." He said the last part very seriously, giving the young woman a deliberate look, and as the doors opened he gestured for her to exit the elevator first. That was probably for the best, since Nell was practically hanging off of Doug's shoulder as he guided her down the hallway.

"Key?" he asked once they stood in front of the door marked 702. Nell rifled through her purse, muttering something about how "RFID keys would be so much easier." She finally pulled out a little silver key and stabbed it in the general direction of the lock. Doug calmly took the key from her, flashing back to times he'd been so blitzed he hadn't been able to get a key in a lock, either. There had been nights he'd passed out on his own porch entirely because of the key-in-lock impossibility when this drunk.

So he said nothing as he turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, and he held Nell's elbow more gently than he might have otherwise done as they walked into her apartment. It was a small place, a one-bedroom that had a dark galley kitchen with new-looking appliances. The doorway to the bedroom was mercifully visible in the dim hallway light, and Doug aimed Nell's staggering body toward it.

He flicked on her bedroom light once they reached the room, and he glanced around to see that it was a bit messier than he might have expected. There was a makeup bag on the dresser with a few brushes and compacts lying strewn around. The Ikea bedding wasn't made, and there was an unruly pile of laundry stacked on top of a hamper. But it certainly wasn't dirty, and just being there made Doug's whole body buzz.

The awkward merging of feeling uninvited and aroused got worse as Nell started to peel off her clothes. She tossed the graduation robe onto the pile of laundry, and then the tie. She kicked off her loafers and peeled off her knee-high socks. She unzipped her plaid skirt and started to clumsily work on the buttons of her button-down. Doug suddenly felt as though he'd walked onto the set of a rather niche porno film, and he found himself grateful for how loosely his sweatpants fit. He suddenly thought he should leave, because Nell hadn't really invited him here. He was only standing in her bedroom because he'd brought her home stinking drunk from his own house. So he cleared his throat and said,

"You can get yourself into bed, I'm sure. I'll see you tomorrow, Nell. If you're not at the meeting with Jackie Sharp, I'll make an excuse for you."

He turned to go, but whirled back around when he felt Nell's fingers curl around his wrist. She pulled his up to her chest, and she asked in a husky, blurred whisper,

"I'm way too drunk for the buttons, Doug. Can you help me before you go?"

Doug let his fingers tremble over her shirt for a moment, but then he shut his eyes and shook his head. He lowered his hand. "No, I can't," he said finally. He looked at her, and she scowled. She tipped her head to the side and demanded,

"You're gonna leave me standing here trapped in my clothes?"

"You'll be able to take it off in the morning," Doug said carefully, stepping back a bit and licking his bottom lip, "and when you do, you'll be grateful that you're not waking up naked, covered in evidence of stuff you don't remember. And if you ask me to stand here and undress you, Nell… then you're going to wake up naked. Don't do that to me. Don't make yourself hate me, okay? Just go get under the blankets and close your eyes, and when you wake up, try to think back to what happened. Look at me."

He waited for her to raise her bleary eyes to him. When she did, he blinked slowly and said in a deliberate voice,

"When you wake up, try to remember that you got very drunk at your trivia night. That you took a taxi to my house, and that I didn't let you stay because I cared too much to let you do that. Try to remember that I got you home safely, that I left you dressed, that…"

His voice faltered. He wanted more than anything to say, ' _Try to remember that for some fucked-up reason, you told me you were falling in love with me._ ' But he didn't say that. Instead, he briefly closed the gap between them and touched his lips to Nell's in a fleeting kiss.

"Try to remember that I kissed you goodnight. Nothing more, nothing less," he said at last. Then, without another word, he turned to go, taking Nell's apartment key with him so that he could make sure the door was locked in the hallway. He was sure she had a spare for the morning, and he would give this one back to her at the office. But for now, he wasn't about to leave her alone in her apartment with the door unlocked.

The drive back to Virginia might as well have been an interminable drive into the seventh circle of hell. It took every ounce of self-control Doug had not to turn his car around and use the key he'd taken to go right back into Nell's apartment. She was  _very_  drunk. She was probably asleep. If he curled up in her bed beside her and breathed in the smell of her, he thought, she probably wouldn't mind. She'd come to him, after all, ostensibly to show him her first prize ribbon… but really, he knew, for sex. She'd come to him because in her drunkenness she'd lost her restraint.

Doug Stamper knew better than anyone else that alcohol didn't make people say and do things they didn't mean. It made people say and do things they were never stupid enough to do while sober. The truths that came out during drunken fights might be magnified, but they were rarely falsified. The inhibitions that were lost rarely gave way to entirely uncharacteristic behavior.

So when Nell had shown up on his doorstep, drunk and giddy and moaning when he kissed her… when Nell had mumbled something about falling in love with him… how much of that would she  _really_  regret if she remembered it in the morning? How much of it would be a catastrophic mistake in the morning, and how much of it would she regard as an embarrassing revelation of her true emotions?

Doug parked his car in the garage and pulled his keys from the ignition. He sniffed quietly, his hand hovering on his stick shift. For thirty solid seconds, he considered turning the car back on, driving back to her and kissing her and holding her until she sobered up. But then he realized he'd done everything right with her tonight. In the morning, she might regret coming to his house drunk out of her mind in a witch costume. But she wouldn't regret anything that happened after that. She wouldn't regret  _him_.

* * *

"Again? This is becoming obscene." Frank Underwood paced back and forth in his office and scowled as he processed the news that Jackie Sharp's office had once again delayed the meeting about the sub saharan Africa trade bill. Doug shrugged and said in a tight voice,

"Her delayed flight the other day apparently threw off her entire schedule. They can meet with us at three this afternoon."

"She's got to learn to have more respect than this. Doesn't she know that being flaky with the Whip will destroy your reputation? She's being a fool," Underwood seethed as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. Doug pinched his lips and said,

"I told her chief of staff it was a mistake to cancel two days in a row. What else can I tell the guy? He'll learn on his own once everyone turns their backs on them."

Underwood quirked up a smirk. "You know, Doug, I intended to go into this meeting with a jovial tone toward Ms. Sharp. I meant to go in with an air of, 'How can we work together to craft a bill that's going to make us all look good?' But she's proving herself an amateur. I want you to get me a three page write-up for this afternoon. Everything I want in that bill. And we're going to walk into that meeting and hand it to Jackie Sharp. No discussion. No debate. We're just going to hand her a list of things I want in that bill, and she's going to put those things into the law. No playing nice with Jackie if she can't play nice with us."

"Got it." Doug nodded once and turned to go from Underwood's office. He turned back around when Underwood said, "Oh, and, Doug? No need to bring Eleanor Simon now. This is going to be a ten minute affair, not a kumbaya about the environment."

Doug kept his face impassive and nodded again. "I'll let her know she can go ahead and keep whipping Fort Huachuca." He pulled the door open and strode through.

Out in the main office space, the room buzzed with energy as the newly-arrived interns unpacked cardboard boxes at their desks and chatted with one another. Doug flicked his eyes to Nell's workspace to see her staring at her computer with earbuds in. She looked tired, with enormous bags under her eyes. Her hair was swept back into a single braid, and she played with it as she squinted at something on the screen. Doug walked up to her desk and she finally seemed to notice him, pulling her earbuds out and giving him an apologetic look.

"The meeting with Sharp's office is in a half hour, right?" she asked quickly, and Doug shook his head.

"It's at three this afternoon; her schedule is screwed up… but the tone of the meeting's changed now. The congressman doesn't need you there. You should spend the day on Fort Huachuca," Doug said. He put his hands on his hips and gnawed on his bottom lip, gauging Nell's response carefully. She nodded impassively and said,

"Oh. That's kind of a relief, actually. I can go ahead and meet with staffers from Michigan's 2nd, then." She looked back to her screen and moved her mouse around, clicking a few times. As she stared at the screen and typed on her keyboard, she murmured, "I wanted to apologize for last night, Mr. Stamper. It was really vulgar and unprofessional of me to -"

"Unprofessional?" The word came out of Doug's mouth in a sardonic laugh before he could stop himself. He crossed his arms over his chest and snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. Nell raised her eyes to him but kept her fingers on her keyboard. She scowled and there was only the sound of the chaotic office around them for a long moment. Then, finally, she said,

"Can we go talk somewhere else?"

Doug stifled the grimace on his face. His hands balled into fists where they were crossed over each elbow. He nodded tightly and said, "Sure thing, Ms. Simon. We can go talk somewhere else."

He tried to forget about the fact that Frank Underwood had tasked him with a write-up for the meeting with Jackie Sharp, reassuring himself that he could get it done in no time. He walked briskly from the main office space into the small conference room, flicking his eyes up to see that the whiteboard still had a large web of red and blue marker writing on it from someone's last vote count. He pulled out a chair at the table for Nell, shut and locked the door, yanking on the cord to open the blinds at the window and bring light into the room. He did that last part on purpose, knowing that Nell would be hungover and that illuminating the space would make her uncomfortable. But she'd been more than a little rude to him, discussing how she'd been 'unprofessional' last night, so Doug made the conference room as bright as he could and then he sat down at the table. He watched Nell sink into the chair opposite him and blink a few times, and then she tapped her fingers on the table once or twice before she cleared her throat.

"You want a bottle of water or anything?" Doug asked, jerking his head to the mini-fridge in the corner. Hangovers, he knew well, were primarily instigated by dehydration, and there was nothing better than water the day after too much booze. But Nell shook her head gingerly and chewed on her fingernail. She sighed and pulled her braid over her shoulder, running her fingers over it as she said,

"Peter… um, you know, 'Peter from Yale.' He was at the trivia night."

"Yeah, you told me that," Doug said with feigned lightness. "He was flirting with you."

"For some reason, that really made me want to get in a cab to your house," Nell nodded. She closed her eyes for a long moment and then opened them, looking straight at Doug as she said, "I had a lot of fun getting drunk with people my age, you know. My team won because of me. ' _Dolores Umbridge claimed to be related to which Pure-Blood family?'_  That was the question.  _Selwyn_. That was the answer. We didn't just win the blue ribbons. We got our bar tab comped. So I had two more Long Island Iced Teas than I would have otherwise done. And Peter From Yale told me that I looked just like Hermione Granger with my hair and my plaid skirt and my button-down shirt. He told me I looked hot, actually. And then he reached a hand under my skirt and he pinched my ass."

Doug felt a sudden flash of rage at that. His head spun and his fists clenched on the table, and he said between his teeth, "That isn't flirting, Nell. That's assault."

"Yeah, I know that today. I only kind of knew that last night. All I could think was, 'God, I wish Doug was here. Or I wish I with Doug.' Is that weird?"

"No." Doug shook his head. He felt his knuckles crack from squeezing his fists so tight in his anger, and his eyes bored into Nell's as he watched her gaze glisten with unshed tears. He realized he'd never seen her close to crying before. It made Doug more angry than he could remember being to think of the little blond punk Peter drunkenly touching her, to think of her lying to a cab driver about where she lived because she was upset.

"I'm really sorry that I showed up at your house a sloppy mess," Nell whispered, swiping her sleeve over her face and looking away from Doug. She stared at the whiteboard for a minute and collected herself. A steely look came over her, and she turned her reddened eyes back to him. Then she said in a much more firm tone, "You could have just taken me back into your bedroom, hiked my skirt up and shoved my underwear aside and done whatever you wanted. I was throwing myself at you. I would have liked it a lot last night and I wouldn't hate you for it today. But you didn't do that. You took me home and you refused to help me with my shirt. Yeah. I remember that. I don't remember nearly as much as I should about last night, but I remember that."

Doug said nothing in response to that, and Nell stared down at the table for a long minute. Doug couldn't help wondering whether she remembered what she'd said to him in the car, that she was falling in love with him. He wanted desperately to ask her whether that had just been drunken rambling, but he didn't. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out her apartment key. He slid it across the table to her and started to take his hand from it.

"I didn't want to leave you in an unlocked apartment," he said quietly. But then Nell put her hand quickly on his, pressing his fingers back down onto the key, and she whispered,

"Keep it, will you?"

She raised her wet eyes to his, and Doug just stared at her for a while. Then, at last, he nodded and pulled the key back across the table. He tucked it into his pocket, and Nell sniffed as she said,

"I'm gonna sit in here for a while until I don't look like a wreck in front of the new interns."

"You need to drink some water," Doug said again. He pushed his chair back and stood, moving over to the mini-fridge in the corner and opening it. He pulled out a bottle of water and held it out to Nell. She took it gratefully and swigged some down. Doug couldn't help noticing the way her throat moved when she swallowed, the way her fingers gripped the bottle the same way they had gripped his cock, and suddenly he found himself shutting his eyes.

"Doug?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her. She'd set down the water and was eyeing him curiously, and Doug realized he was leaning heavily on the table with one hand. He stood up straighter, and Nell asked,

"You okay?"

Doug nodded and said crisply, "I have to get a rather unfriendly write-up together for the meeting with Jackie Sharp. A list of demands… things we want included in the bill. She's blown Underwood off twice now, so meetings aren't going to be friendly negotiations anymore. Is there anything you want in there from an environmental perspective?"

Nell gave Doug a little crooked smile, seeming pleased he'd bothered asking her. She nodded thoughtfully and said, "Carbon Credits. It's different than handing them money flat-out. Allow Asian companies to purchase carbon credits, and allow African governments to receive credit or increased aid for reducing carbon footprint through responsible development or trade practices. Both sides of the aisle will be way more likely to vote for carbon credits in the bill. Or at least less likely to actively object to them."

"Got it." Doug nodded and moved over to the window. He turned the rod to close the blinds, and he mumbled to Nell, "I'm assuming we still have contact information for Peter, right?"  
"Doug, you can't do anything about that." Nell flew up from her chair and shook her head vehemently as she walked over to the window. She put her hand on Doug's shoulder and hissed, "He was just as drunk as me. He was being an asshole, but he doesn't work here anymore. Don't ruin things. Please. Let it go." She raised her eyebrows and shook her head again.

Doug felt a twinge of nausea as he thought again about some other guy laying his hands on Nell, and he wondered why it was he felt possessive and defensive over her. He was very glad all of a sudden that they were in the isolated conference room, because he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from touching her if he'd wanted to. His fingers pushed stray hairs from her face and stayed there, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. Nell whimpered softly and Doug felt her hands wind their way around his waist.

He was kissing her then, and at some point he must have moved the two of them, because he realized her back was against the wall. She was sighing into his mouth and her nails were gently scratching his scalp, and the back corner of Doug's mind wanted nothing more than to throw her down onto the desk and take her. Instead, he moved his mouth to her neck, eliciting a desperate, quiet moan from Nell as her hands tightened in his graying hair. One of his hands moved to squeeze at her breast, and the other clamped at her waist. Doug knew she must be able to feel the hardening lump between his legs as he pressed himself against her, but he didn't care. He moved his mouth to her ear and he whispered in a hoarse voice,

"When I came out to your desk, you talked about being unprofessional. Last night you talked about falling in love with me. Which one is it, Nell? I don't know what to think with you. Is this just a breach of professionalism? Or are you…"

His hands tightened on her as he heard her breath hitch, and her fingers moved in a massaging motion on his scalp. Finally, she admitted,

"I know what I said to you in the car last night, Doug. I would love to tell you it was just the alcohol talking. But it wasn't."

Doug kissed her again, his mouth frantic on hers as he realized what she meant. She loved him. She was confused by that, by what it meant, but she didn't regret telling him what she had last night. He sucked her lip and dragged his tongue over the roof of her mouth. He massaged her breast and squeezed her waist and pushed her up harder against the wall. He savored the feel and taste and smell of her.

Then there was a clicking, jiggling sound at the door, and Doug realized someone was trying to get into the locked conference room. He flew away from Nell as if she'd burned him. He gasped for air quickly collected himself, straightening his suit jacket and tie and swiping his sleeve at his lips. He reached his hand impulsively into the waist of his pants and adjusted his erection to make it less obvious. He could hear Nancy Kaufberger's voice on the other side of the door, muttering something to someone, and he cleared his throat roughly.

"You can have the room in five, Nancy," he said in a firm tone.

"Sorry, Mr. Stamper," he heard Nancy say through the door, and then there was quiet again.

Doug turned to Nell to see that she'd straightened herself back up and picked up her water bottle from the table.

"I'll go first," he said, and she nodded, pink-cheeked and embarrassed. Doug knew that just now she needed to hear him talk business to recalibrate her day, so he licked his bottom lip and swallowed hard as he tried to think of what to say. Finally he nodded and said, "Carbon credits, then. I'll make sure those get in the document that goes to the meeting with Jackie Sharp."

"Great. Thank you." Nell smiled a bit and swigged from her water bottle. "And I'll make sure and let you know if anything comes of the meeting with the staff from Michigan's 2nd."

Doug nodded and his feet started to move toward the door of the conference room. He almost kissed Nell goodbye. He almost said something else to her. But he didn't. He managed to pull himself away from her and back out into the office. He pulled himself to his desk, to his computer. He started typing the document Frank Underwood had assigned to him.

He laid out all the demands Underwood had for Jackie Sharp for the African trade bill. Protections against artificial gold pricing. Assurances that food aid wouldn't be exported to Asia. Carbon credits.

He printed out several hard copies and put them into folders to take to the meeting. He emailed a copy to Frank Underwood and received a thank-you reply. Then he got a notification of another email, which he opened. It was from Nell.

_Doug,_

_Michigan's 2nd District is officially in the 'Yes' column on Fort Huachuca. You're welcome._

_Tosca at 7:30 tonight, if you're available. I called ahead._

_Nell_

* * *

"So, in '81, Schuller issued a list of what Third Stream was  _not_. He said it was  _not_  jazz played with classical instruments. It was  _not_  plugging Ravel into be-bop changes. It was  _not_  jazz in -"

"It was not jazz in fugue form. It was not meant to do away with either jazz or classical music, but rather serve as another creative outlet for instrumentalists in both genres." Nell nodded emphatically, pulling the straw in her Coke up to her lips. Doug smiled. He hadn't expected her to know anything at all about Third Stream music, let alone to be as passionate about it as he was. He sipped happily at his own drink and glanced down at the menu.

They had barely talked about work at all since leaving Capitol Hill for the day. They'd briefly discussed each of their important meetings and the fresh intern blood, but most of their discussion time had focused on other matters - jazz, literature, and why it was that soccer had never caught on in America. Nell had confided in the car that her pantyhose had torn halfway through the day, that she'd taken them off only after realizing with mortification she'd been walking around with a very visible run up the back of her leg, and they'd had a bit of a laugh about that. They'd sat down in the rather blandly-decorated but well-respected Tosca, ordered a few Cokes, and started talking about Third Stream. And now, here they sat, quiet and content as Doug pondered whether he wanted to order risotto or gnocchi.

"May I go ahead and take your order?" The gangly server appeared beside their table with his pad and pen out, and Doug flicked his eyes to Nell expectantly. The server looked mildly impressed by the age difference between Nell and Doug, and Doug could sense a bit of jealousy coming off the kid. He was a pimply-faced creature with spiky hair and a skinny frame beneath his white dress shirt, and there was no hiding the fact that the waiter thought Nell was pretty.  _What is she doing with this old fart?_  That was what the waiter was wondering. It was obvious. Doug puffed himself up a bit and prompted,

"Nell?"

"May I start with the grilled baby lettuce, please? And then the butternut squash ravioli? Thank you." Nell handed her menu to the waiter, who nodded as he jotted down the order and turned to Doug.

"The Cappesanta and the Risotto, please." Doug held his menu up between his forefinger and his middle finger, and the waiter nodded as he plucked it away. The pimple-faced server finished writing and said crisply,

"I'll have those starters out to you guys right away." Then he was gone, and Nell turned her eyes to Doug and said firmly,

"I'm buying dinner. I was the one that invited you and made the reservation."

Doug shook his head. "You're not paying. Don't bring it up again."

Her cheeks colored a little and she reached across the table for his fingers. Doug felt a heat flush through him as she hooked her hand under his and murmured,

"I don't have a change of clothes with me. Can you take me home from here?"

Doug nodded. He certainly didn't mind waking up early and going to Arlington in the morning. But then he rather impulsively said,

"Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to pack up four or five outfits and keep them in my closet, Nell."

She pulled her hand away from his and laughed rather nervously as she drank from her glass of Coke. "What are you, my boyfriend?" she teased in a low voice.

"I wouldn't mind thinking of myself that way," Doug admitted truthfully. He picked up a warm piece of bread and bit into it. He used the time it took to chew and swallow the bread to think carefully and to watch Nell. Her pretty lips, dark pink and begging to be kissed, fell open in surprise in response to what he'd said. Her brown eyes went wide and one corner of her mouth curled up.

"I have the Autunnale for the lady, and the Cappesanta for the gentleman." The voice of the pimple-faced server jolted Doug's attention away from Nell, and he pulled himself back in his chair as the two plates were put down onto the table. Doug nodded and muttered his thanks, and shook his head when the kid asked if they needed anything else.

"This looks good," Nell said in a pleasant tone, taking a bite of her grilled lettuce, and the discussion of the nature of their relationship had evaporated.

The rest of dinner was spent talking about the new Warhol exhibit at the National Gallery of Art and about the new silent film noir coming out,  _The Artist._  Doug paid the bill and they made their way out to his black SUV, and on the ride to Maryland, they listened to Charles Mingus and talked about the innovative sound of his double bass playing.

More than once while he drove, Doug glanced over to Nell and noticed thought about how much he liked having her in his car. He noticed how the shadows of the night cut along her sharp cheekbones as she smiled beside him, the way her pale skin glistened in the dim light. He thought about how much he'd enjoyed talking to her, tonight and every other time they'd spoken. He thought back to kissing her today in the conference room, and the night before, and every other time he'd pressed his lips to hers, and he realized how badly he wanted to do it again.

"Wynton Marsalis pointed to the end of  _Epitaph_  and said, 'That looks like something you'd find at the end of an Etude book under  _Hard_ ,'" Nell snorted, talking about Charles Mingus' longest and most complicated jazz composition. Doug didn't respond to what she'd said. He swallowed hard and stared out his windshield and said in a stern voice,

"I'm in love with you, Nell."

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw her smile disappear, saw her face go serious, saw her nod gravely. She reached for his steering wheel and put her hand over his, and then her voice said softly,

"I love you, too, Doug."

* * *

Hours later, Doug lay staring at the ceiling of Nell's bedroom, twirling his fingers absently through her curls. Her bare back rose and fell slowly as she slept curled up on his chest. She was warm and smelled beautiful, and Doug liked the feel of her pressed up against him. He let his hand leave her hair and trail down her smooth shoulder, over her arm. He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed gently, and Nell squirmed a little and whispered in her sleep,

"Doug…"

There was a raucous buzzing on the little table beside the bed, and Doug rushed to snatch his phone before it woke Nell up. The vibrating text message alert stopped, and Nell stirred again but didn't wake up. Doug blinked a few times at the screen of his phone but couldn't read it properly. He scowled, feeling older than ever as he clawed in the dark for his glasses on the table. He shoved them onto his face and dragged his finger over his phone screen a few times until he opened the unread text message. Unsurprisingly, it was from Frank Underwood.

_NC 7th district Rep Albrecht (R) dead from heart attack at 11:50 pm._

Doug sat up straight, sending Nell flying off his chest. She yelped as she was jarred awake. Doug's phone buzzed again, and he read the next message from Underwood.

_House Resolution expressing sorrow will be drafted tomorrow. Funeral plans will be forthcoming. Please have press statement ready in the morning. Find out about special election info, who clerk is, etc._

Doug quickly poked his fingers at the screen of his phone to confirm that he would do everything Underwood asked. As he did, Nell rubbed her fists into her eyes and asked in a bleary voice,

"What's going on?"

"The rep from North Carolina's 7th district died unexpectedly. Heart attack," Doug mumbled quickly as he sent the message off to Underwood. He set his phone down onto the mattress and pulled off his glasses, and Nell shook her head quickly to focus her thoughts and cleared her throat.

"North Carolina's 7th," she repeated hoarsely. "Arthur Albrecht? Republican? What was he, fifty years old?"

"If that," Doug nodded. Albrecht's district wasn't far from Underwood's, so despite being from the opposing party, Doug had worked closely with Albrecht's office over the last few years. Albrecht was about the same age as Doug, but he'd been a portly man with a penchant for cigars, hamburgers, and bourbon. A heart attack hadn't been an unfathomable fate.

Nell rubbed roughly at her face with her palms and hissed out a sigh. Doug tried not to focus on her naked body, on the way her nipples were perked up in the cool darkness. But he felt himself going a bit hard between his legs just the same, and he focused on what Nell was saying when she spoke again in her breathy whisper.

"There'll be a special election scheduled," she noted. "A House Resolution to pay homage. A funeral, memorial stuff. Fourth-term guy. We'll have to send flowers and a card from the office to his widow. Judy, right? And he had a son in college, I think. A press statement… We'll get it all ready in the morning, and -"

Doug cut her off by pressing his lips to hers, tasting sleep on her and feeling the vibration of her voice on his mouth as she squealed in surprise. He ensnared his fingers in her hair and groaned softly into the kiss, nibbling her lip for a second and finally pulling away.

"What was that for?" Nell asked breathlessly.

"I'm really glad you work for us," Doug said simply. "You're a very useful asset to have around, Ms. Simon."

She giggled quietly. "Is that so?"

"Yeah." Doug squirmed and wiggled until he was lying flat on his back, and he peeled back the blanket to proudly reveal his now fully erect manhood. He reached for Nell's hand and wrapped it around his cock, and he grunted quietly. Then he said, "There are so many areas in which you've demonstrated impressive acumen, Eleanor. Lots of… ungh… lots of reasons why the Congressman and I are…  _fuck_ … very glad to have you on our team…"

Nell laughed as she pumped her hand on him, spreading the slick precum down his shaft, and Doug bucked his hips up into her hand at the wonderful feeling of her touching him. Then she leaned down and put her lips to Doug's ear, her hair tickling his chest as she did.

"Do you want to screw me, Mr. Stamper?" she asked, and Doug moaned helplessly at the sound of her question. He tried to answer her once, twice, and failed at finding his voice. Finally he just nodded frantically, and he felt her weight shifting around the mattress as she straddled him. Then he felt the delicious wet warmth and tightness of her sinking onto him.

She moved slowly at first, then settled into a steady rhythm. Doug wrenched his eyes shut in the dark room. One of his hands blindly found a breast and massaged it, thumbing her hard nipple and listening to her whisper his name over and over. His other hand played with her clit, making little circles and flicks and edging her closer to the cliff as she pumped herself on him. They stayed like that for a while, each of them making sounds of satisfaction from time to time. After a while, Doug's eyes flew open and stared, because Nell's thighs tensed and her voice grew shrill. He watched her hands grope in the dark for something to hold, finally settling on his shoulders. Her head tossed back and forth a bit, and he felt her cinch erratically around him as she came.

" _Fuck_ , Doug," she whispered roughly, sending a shock through him. Her hips slowed a bit, and her brown eyes found his as she moved a bit again.

It was all Doug needed, to see her like that. He bucked himself up into her a few times and that was that. His pleasure rushed out through his veins and exploded. His hands clutched at Nell's waist and drove her down hard onto his body as he filled her, and then he drove his head back onto the pillows and pulled her off of him.

They went back to lying the way they'd been before the phone had gone off, with Doug on his back and Nell snuggled up against him. They were sweaty and smelled of sex and she had his seed leaking out of her, but neither could be bothered to care just now. Doug kissed her slick forehead and put his phone back onto the bedside table.

"We'll handle it all in the morning," she said again, and he nodded.

"Goodnight, Nell."

* * *

Doug's phone vibrated loudly on the little table beside him, and his eyes flew open as he snatched at it. He grabbed his glasses and put them on and blinked a few times as he tried to process what had triggered the phone. It was an email, he could see. He opened his mail program and frowned in confusion when he realized the email was from Nell.

Doug glanced to the bed beside him. It was empty. He could hear the sound of a sink running from down the hall, and as Doug returned his eyes to his phone, he realized Nell had emailed him from the bathroom. He smirked and opened the email, taking in the text.

" _Late last night, I learned of the sudden passing of my esteemed colleague, Congressman Arthur Albrecht. For the past twelve years, Congressman Albrecht has represented North Carolina's 7th District with distinction and honor. He worked across the aisle with the Blue Dog Coalition and co-authored legislation with me that helped farmers in both our states receive federal subsidies in the face of mounting economic difficulties. Arthur Albrecht pushed through successful laws to protect veterans in their retirement and to more clearly define hate crimes._

_I have lost a dear colleague and friend, and North Carolina has lost a great leader. I had immense respect for Congressman Albrecht, and today my heart is heavy to know he is gone from the House of Representatives and from his constituents. I send my sincere condolences to his wife Judy and to his son Patrick, and I pray for the repose of Arthur Albrecht's soul._ "

She'd written a press statement, he realized. At 5:30 in the morning. And not just any press statement, but a very serviceable one. Doug copied and pasted the text of the email to Frank Underwood and added in a small paragraph at the top of the new email.

" _Per Eleanor Simon. I will release this to appropriate media outlets immediately once I have your approval. - Doug."_

The bedroom door creaked open then, and Nell came shuffling into the bedroom in a terry bathrobe with her wet hair tied messily up on the crown of her head. She was scrubbing her teeth with one hand, and she flashed Doug an expectant thumbs-up with the other.

"Ish dat okay?" she asked, her words garbled by toothpaste. Doug smiled crookedly and nodded.

"Yeah, that's perfect. Thank you," he said. Then he ran his fingers over his jaw and chin and felt how badly he needed a shave, and he remembered that he didn't have a change of clothes with him. They'd both need to be at the office early, he knew, in light of the congressman's death. Doug groaned as he sat up in Nell's bed and scratched at his scalp. "I need to get to Arlington as soon as possible," he said.

"I know," Nell nodded. She darted from the room, and Doug could hear her spitting out toothpaste in her bathroom sink. A moment later she reappeared in the threshold of her bedroom door, and she said reassuringly, "You go on and I'll meet you there. I'll take the Metro in and be there in an hour and a half."

Doug nodded solemnly and glanced down to his phone. "Let me get this statement out to a few media outlets first," he said. Nell smiled brightly.

"That good, huh?" she asked, leaning on the door frame.

"That good," Doug nodded. He began drafting group emails to the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Charleston Post and Courier, the Gaffney Ledger, and other press contact lists he had stored. Once the right emails had been sent off, Doug rose from Nell's bed and instinctively began making it. He tugged at the sheets and comforter, unwilling to leave the bed a rumpled mess once he left for the day. Nell came trotting back into her room and laughed aloud at the sight of Doug moving naked around the bed and tucking pillows into place.

"Oh,  _God_ , Doug. Stop!" she cried. She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his back, and Doug tensed up at the feel of her touching him. He shut his eyes, trying to ignore the way it felt to have her arms threaded around his torso, and he swallowed hard. She squeezed him a little and murmured against his skin, "You need to go back to your house and get ready for work."

Doug turned around to see her standing in front of him, her hair slicked back into a tight bun and a bit of makeup on her face. She'd put on a bra and a white camisole already, which she'd tucked into a navy pencil skirt. In her left hand she clutched a mustard-colored cardigan, and she stared up at Doug with a crooked smile that only reminded him of just how much less ready for the day he was. He nodded solemnly and looked around for his clothes from the night before, picking up his pants and underwear and shirt and and yanking them on one by one. By the time he was dressed, Nell seemed completely ready for work.

"Seems stupid to have you take the Metro," Doug noted. "Why don't you just come with me? I'll be quick at my house… and then I'll drive you in."

Nell gave him a deliberately look, tipping her head to the side and chewing her lip. "It would be a little obvious, don't you think?"

Doug fiddled with his tie in his fingers and shrugged as if he didn't care, and he said lightly, "Would it be the worst thing if someone thought -"

"I don't want anybody thinking less of either of us  _professionally_  because of what we both do personally, Doug." Nell sounded firm on that, and Doug felt his cheeks flush hot all of a sudden. He crushed his tie in his fist and nodded once.

"Right. I'll see you at the office, then. Thanks again for the press statement. Saved us both a lot of grief, and I know Underwood will be more than a little happy that it got out so early."

He grabbed his car keys off the bedside table and planted a swift kiss on Nell's forehead, walking briskly from her bedroom and out of her apartment.

As he stood in his own bathroom in Arlington shaving his face, he stared in the mirror over his sink and examined his own face. There were wrinkles around his hazel eyes were there used to be smooth skin. His hairline had receded so far up his head that he had completely surrendered to being half-bald. His eyebrows and hair were more gray than brown at this point. Doug dragged his razor over his jaw, revealing the clean-shaven skin beneath as he continued to berate himself with his own thoughts.

He glanced out into his bedroom and thought back to the time Nell had teased him for his University of Chicago t-shirt. The year Doug had graduated college, Nell had been born. That fact in itself, coupled with his less-than-impressive physical state, might be enough in most situations to completely discount him as a suitor for her. But for some reason, she had let him take her to dinner at Blacksalt that first time. She'd let him kiss her and strip Claire Underwood's dress from her the night of the gala at the Library of Congress. Nell had let Doug take her home with him several times since then, and there had been the time she'd come to him drunk in the middle of the night. She had shared herself with him, body and soul and mind. She was smart, and funny, and beautiful, and of course Doug was enamored with her. For some bizarre reason, it seemed she liked him pretty well right back.

Doug finished shaving his face and dragged a hot washcloth over his face as he made his way out to his bedroom. He began to get dressed into a fresh suit, yanking on pants and a shirt. As he pawed over his tie hanger, his fingers hovered on a dark red tie that he could remember Nell taking off him the night that the Metro had been down.

' _This is a nice tie,'_  she had whispered, tearing her mouth from his mid-kiss. ' _Nice color. Feels familiar… Oh! Stanford Cardinal.'_

Doug had huffed out a laugh and chastised her, ' _It's U of C maroon.'_

But Nell had shaken her head and mumbled firmly, " _It's cardinal,"_ and Doug had not corrected her again.

He swore quietly as he put the tie on, shaking his head to himself as he realized just how deeply in trouble he was with Eleanor Simon.

* * *

"The service will be on Thursday at the National Cathedral. Three in the afternoon." Doug set down a custom stationery card on Frank Underwood's desk, in which Underwood scrawled a brief note and his signature. The congressman slid the card back to Doug, who nodded and folded it into an envelope. He meant to have the card delivered the card to Congressman Albrecht's widow with some flowers later today. Maybe, he thought, he could task Nell with ordering the flowers. She would probably select better ones than he would.

"Claire and I will attend the service," Underwood nodded solemnly. "You stay here and hold down the fort. The press statement of condolence you sent out this morning was good. Thank you for getting me that expeditiously."

"Don't thank me. Thank Nell Simon," Doug shrugged, tucking the signed card into his leather folio. "She wrote it."

"Did she?" Frank Underwood's oily voice sounded amused, and he leaned back in his chair as he folded his hands before him. "Did she  _really_  write it, Doug? Or was it more of a, 'Daddy helped me build my science fair volcano' sort of thing?"

Doug felt irritated, all of a sudden. He pinched his lips and coughed quietly, wondering why it was he was allowing Nell to drive a wedge between himself and Frank Underwood. But when he saw the dangerous glint in Underwood's eye, Doug said with an odd surge of confidence,

"She wrote it in her bathroom while she was getting ready this morning. Emailed it to me across her apartment. She came into her bedroom with a mouthful of toothpaste and asked me whether it was okay, thirty seconds after I read the draft on my phone. I sent it straight on to you without any alterations."

Frank Underwood gave Doug a wicked smirk then, and he nodded slowly as he murmured, "That's how you do it, Doug."

But then he rose from his chair and turned toward the small office window, his fingers knitting themselves together behind his back as he said,

"I have some rather awkward news about Eleanor Simon's father. Or, more specifically, about her father's forests."

Doug tried to keep his face and voice completely impassive as Frank Underwood turned to face him. Doug shrugged and said, "What about them?"

Underwood sighed and rapped his knuckles on his desk as he reached for his cell phone. He held up the device and said, "Believe it or not, the demand for paper products isn't what it once was. As a consequence, two of the three paper mills that wanted Mr. Simon's trees are closing within the next twelve months. I'm sure that, as an ardent conservationist, Mr. Simon will be more relieved than anything else to learn that his forests won't be harvested any time soon."

Doug bit hard on the inside of his cheek as he processed what Frank Underwood had said. "He won't be paid for them any time soon, either, will he?" Doug growled quietly, leaning on the back of a chair. Underwood said nothing.

Doug sniffed quietly and tried to maintain a cool air of self-control, but the truth was he was angry. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged at Frank Underwood, who eyed Doug with an examining stare. Doug said in a steady voice,

"All the guy asked for was a half a million dollars. For a  _shit ton_  of trees, Frank. And why did he want a half a million dollars? So that his daughter Nell could pay off her student loans and buy a condo and have enough to break even every month, because she hardly makes anything working here. You know as well as I do that Shepherd Simon would have never given you a single sapling of his land, for pay or for free, if the money hadn't been for Nell."

Underwood frowned and nodded. Then, in a maddeningly quiet and calm tone, he said, "I thought you might be a bit emotional, about this, Doug, but -"

"Emotional?" Doug interrupted, his own voice barely above a whisper. Underwood looked angry, but Doug continued, shaking his head. "I'm not emotional. You're going back on a deal. There were legal documents signed. I was in the meetings."

"Then you'll remember that the legal agreements were contingent upon the financial solvency of the paper mills. The paper mills are no longer financially solvent; ergo any arrangement made up to this point is null and void."

Underwood pronounced his words with a carefully practiced venom. He stepped around his desk and got too close to Doug. He leaned in, and Doug resisted the urge to step back. He stared into Underwood's narrowed eyes as the other man said,

"Nell Simon is a valuable employee of this congressional office, Mr. Stamper. She is a very good writer, of laws and documents and all manner of texts. She is very good and charming the pants off of my political opponents, and she's very helpful at convincing Blue Dogs of the merits of environmentalism. She has a wealth of legal and political knowledge, she learns quickly, and she works hard without complaining. I think I'd like to make sure she's on my staff for a great long while."

Underwood pulled his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms, and Doug swallowed heavily as the other man kept talking.

"But I don't owe that girl her daddy's benevolently arranged trust fund, Doug. My paper mills have gone bust, and now Shepherd Simon's lumber is just a whole lot of pretty trees. If Eleanor Simon can't afford her rent, or her student loans, or her groceries, even with how hard she's working, then I would hope her daddy would figure out another way to help her. Or, better yet, maybe someone like a boyfriend. Ms. Simon has a boyfriend for matters just such as this, doesn't she?"

Underwood wordlessly went around his desk and opened a desk drawer. He pulled out a checkbook and used his teeth to pull the lid off an expensive-looking pen from atop his desk. He opened the checkbook and began scrawling words and figures on it, and then he handed it to Doug.

The check was made out to Eleanor Simon, for the amount of $75,000. Doug glared at Underwood, who pulled his reading glasses from his face and said with feigned innocence,

"Just to get her started, until her father can make other arrangements for her financial security. Believe me, Doug… I do feel guilty about poor Nell losing out in all of this. I'm sure, as her colleague, you feel badly about that, too."

Doug put the check back down on Underwood's desk and turned toward the door, leaving the office without another word.

* * *

The new cluster of interns had the same familiar and obnoxious swell of enthusiasm as each batch of predecessors before them. The Barnard graduate darted about like a firefly, speaking too quickly and smiling too brightly as she looked constantly for the next task to complete. She was exhausting. Raúl from Chicago was sunny and determined and thorough with counts. The daughter of the wealthy South Carolina entrepreneur wasn't as stupid as Doug had assumed she'd be, but was certainly the dullest bulb in the string. Peter from Yale had been replaced by Teddy from Princeton - an equally WASPish and even more pretentious young dandy than the one before him.

Teddy from Princeton was a tall and brawny Charleston native who had gone to Princeton to row crew and study financial engineering. Doug had no doubt that the young man would make himself fabulously wealthy and that he already had girls hanging off of him. Teddy annoyed Doug with his dazzling white smile and the way he guffawed at inappropriate points of conversations. Most of all, Teddy from Princeton annoyed Doug with the fact that he'd spent the past two weeks unabashedly flirting with Nell Simon.

For the first week after Congressman Albrecht's funeral, the new interns had kept their heads down and focused on counting votes, screening emails and voicemails from constituents, and handling day-to-day tasks in the office. But Nell had been busy whipping the final votes for Bob Birch's Fort Huachuca bill, and Doug had been preoccupied working with Frank Underwood and Jackie Sharp on the trade bill. The office had been chaotic and busy, since the death of a congressman had caused a few days of quiet after which everything had to be caught up.

Doug went that first week after Albrecht's funeral hardly speaking to Nell at all, communicating to her primarily in a series of text messages before and after work and even a few threads of strictly work-related email. He'd had a long discussion with her about her father's forests, and she'd acted like she didn't care about the money. Doug knew she did care. So for the two weeks that followed, Doug began to suspect that Nell's distance had less to do with being busy and more to do with being angry.

Three weeks had now passed since Underwood had informed Doug that Shepherd Simon wouldn't be paid for his forests. In that time, Doug had begun to feel like it had been a sick dream to think he had been Nell Simon's boyfriend. It had been childish to think such a thing, he imagined. What was a 'boyfriend,' anyway? Middle schoolers had boyfriends. Men Doug Stamper's age had wives, but Doug Stamper didn't have a wife. He'd had Nell Simon for a hot moment, but for the past few weeks all he'd had was an endless supply of work and very little interaction with Nell. One day, he pretended to read a document on his computer screen while he eavesdropped on a conversation between Nell and Teddy from Princeton.

"So, I hear you're on a pretty good Harry Potter trivia team," Teddy said in a flirtatious tone, and Nell gave a nervous laugh from her desk. Doug flicked his eyes to her just long enough to see her nod up to Teddy from Princeton, and she said,

"Yup.  _Yer a Quizzard, Harry_  is the reigning McGinty's Harry Potter trivia champion team." She pumped her fist up in mock pride, and Teddy gave a too-loud guffaw as he said,

"Say, that's really great. I wonder if you're looking to expand your quiz horizons. You know, a bunch of us from the Hill are forming a team of interns and staff from the Deep South… it'll just be for playing general trivia, but we would love to have you on board. Our team's going to be called  _Peaches and Cream_  since it's Georgia and the Carolinas…"

Nell chuckled at that, and she hesitated for a moment before asking, "When are you guys going out?"

"Well, uh… sorry for the late notice, but… tonight, if you can make it? We thought we might try District Trivia at Penn Social. Four dollar blue paddle pilsners during the quiz, and the first place team gets $25 gift cards all around. Tell me that's an offer you can refuse, huh? What do you say, Ms. Simon?  _Peaches and Cream_  is calling…" He laughed again, and Nell smiled and nodded.

Doug felt his heart thump and his stomach twist. He knew Nell wasn't stupid enough to turn down a networking opportunity in Washington, D.C. This was a town built on professional connections. Moreover, Doug knew she liked to go drink and play trivia. And he had no ownership over her personal life. She'd made that perfectly clear over the last few weeks by completely ignoring him. Still, Doug felt queasy as he stared at his computer screen and pretended to read it, and his head buzzed as Teddy from Princeton said,

"Great! Hey, you live out in Silver Spring, right? Yeah, I'm in Bethesda. How do you like Maryland? I'd thought maybe I would wind up in Virginia, but -"

That was all too much for Doug, and he wrenched his face from his computer screen and spoke. "Hey, Nell? I don't mean to eavesdrop, but… we have that meeting with Jackie Sharp tonight about the sub saharan African trade bill. Did you forget?"

Nell Simon glared at Doug across the office and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stamper," she said tightly. "Not sure which meeting you're referring to."

Doug cleared his throat and gestured vaguely toward his computer. "Did, uh… did that email about the meeting tonight at six-thirty not come through?"

Nell shrugged and shook her head. "No," she said simply. "I didn't get anything about a meeting with Congresswoman Sharp. And I actually haven't been in on meetings about that bill for the past three weeks. I wouldn't think Mr. Underwood would need me for anything tonight. I can go ask him, though."

She started to rise from her chair and jerked her head toward Frank Underwood's office. She was fully aware that Doug was lying, and she was calling his bluff in front of Teddy from Princeton. All of a sudden, Doug was overcome with rage and jealousy and an overpowering need to just  _talk_  to her. So he shook his head and said roughly,

"Why don't you come into the conference room with me for a few minutes? There's actually… there have been quite a few changes to the trade bill from an environmental perspective. That's why the congressman wants you sitting in. The… uh, the carbon credits are sort of a problem. I want to talk through them with you before tonight."

Nell's bright brown eyes narrowed across the room. She snapped at the hem of her dark blue jacket and nodded crisply. "Sure thing," she said to Doug, and then she turned to a bewildered-looking Teddy. "I'm sorry about trivia. Maybe next time?"

"Oh. Of course. Good luck with the trade bill. Oh, Mr. Stamper! I wanted to let you know the latest count on Fort Huachuca. Right now it's at 235 in favor, 192 against. Up sixteen from a week ago. It's looking good. Much more solid… thanks to Nell here."

"Great. Thanks." Doug gave Teddy a rather unaffected look and jotted down the figure, and then he rose from his chair and gestured for Nell to follow him into the small conference room. He shut the door behind them and locked it. He remembered the last time they'd been in here alone together, when they'd discussed how she'd come drunk to his house. He'd kissed her and somehow they'd determined that she hadn't been mistaken in declaring her love for him.

Things felt much different now.

"Look. I get it. You're mad about the forest money," Doug heard himself saying quietly. He moved to the window and shut the blinds carefully. "But that kid from Princeton is an even bigger putz than Peter from Yale. What's with these WASPs from the Ivy Leagues…?" He turned around to see that Nell was glaring at him with her arms crossed over her chest. He closed the gap between them and asked quietly, "What the hell happened? Three weeks ago you told me you were in love with me, you slept with me in your own bed, you kissed me and teased me about being your boyfriend. Then all of a sudden Underwood backs out of buying your father's forests and I'm dead to you. Is that all I was, Nell? A ticket to paying off your student loans? A key to buying a condo? Just tell me."

Nell shook her head. "No, Doug. I just didn't want my professional accomplishments overshadowed by what I did with you in my bedroom. And in the last three weeks I've only picked up steam professionally. I've whipped like mad on Fort Huachuca. I've been ghostwriting for Underwood. I've been standing on my own two feet in this office. Yes, it  _really_  sucks that I don't get the half a million dollars I thought I was going to get. But… oh, well."

She shrugged nonchalantly and leaned onto the conference room table as she said in a light voice, "I'll be damned, Doug, if I'm going to have a sugar daddy pay my rent or buy me a car. And I was really nervous that if I kept going with you in the wake of the forest deal falling through, you might feel obligated to do that."

"If I offered you any money, Nell, it would be because I cared about you, not because -"

But Nell shook her head firmly and pointed out the conference room door. Then she whispered, "You just made up a meeting for tonight to try to keep me away from an intern a year younger than me. We aren't even dating and you're  _still_  possessive over me."

Doug felt an ugly coil in his abdomen, an unpleasant sensation he couldn't shake. He walked around the table and stepped up to Nell, suddenly determined to re-establish control of the situation. He needed to make her his again. Once, for a very brief moment, Nell had been his. Now, she was making it very clear that she was not. But Doug needed to make her his again.

He cupped her face in his hand and stared down at her for a long time, wordlessly daring her to take her eyes away from him. She didn't, and after a moment her brown eyes warmed a bit. Doug finally touched his forehead to hers and whispered,

"You told me you loved me. Why did you do that?"

Nell shook her head and shut her eyes. "Doug… don't…"

"Why did you tell me that, Nell?" Doug tightened his hand on her jaw, and Nell licked her bottom lip as she said quietly,

"Because I had fallen in love with you. I couldn't help it."

Doug nodded against her, his forehead rubbing hers as he brought his other hand to her face. He moved his lips to her ear and murmured, "Yes. That's what you say to someone when you've fallen in love with them, isn't it?" He kissed the skin just below her ear and felt her shiver, and he tangled his fingers in her hair as he whispered, "I love you, Eleanor Simon."

"Please don't," she begged, but her hands betrayed her as they flew to Doug's chest and clutched at his shirt. She moaned quietly as Doug began to kiss her neck, and she burrowed her face in his shoulder when he turned her around and hiked her up onto the table. His hand snaked between her legs and up her loose-fitting skirt, shoving aside her panties and pulsing against her womanhood. She gasped and her fingers squeezed his shirt, and Doug's cock ached in his pants. He used his clumsy left fingers to free himself, fumbling with a belt buckle and with buttons and a zipper. He pulled himself out and thrust himself into her, yanking her body against his own as she sat on the conference room table.

"I want to go play trivia tonight," Nell said breathlessly as Doug thrashed himself into her. She was slick and tight and he had trouble processing what she'd said, but as he moved he shook his head and said firmly,

"You're not going out with that stupid intern. You're going to dinner with me."

She glared up at him and opened her mouth to speak, but Doug silenced her by crushing his mouth against hers. He vaguely remembered what Frank Underwood had said once, that he only surrounded himself with people who took what they wanted. Doug slid his hand into the small of Nell's back and nestled her body tight against his, continuing to kiss her and grunting as he came inside of her. He let the tingling burst of pleasure course through him and felt her tense up a few moments later as she followed suit, apparently overcome by the friction and the feel of him rubbing and kissing her.

He pulled out of her and used the stack of napkins on the conference room table to half-heartedly clean them both up. As Nell caught her breath and smoothed her hair, she muttered in a hoarse voice,

"You and I are not a couple, Doug. We went on a few dates and we messed around. We spent the night in each other's beds a few times. We developed feelings for one another. But we work together, and I'm not willing to compromise my professional life for a fling."

"This isn't a fling, Nell. I'm in love with you." Doug straightened his tie and his shirt sleeves and said in a calm tone, "I like the sound of your voice when you sing along with the radio. I like to talk to you about jazz and books and laws and films. I think you're smart, and funny, and beautiful. I like to kiss you. I like to fuck you. I feel like a hormonal middle-school boy when I'm around you. I liked waking up next to you."

He closed the distance between them again and studied the way Nell's pretty brown eyes glistened with confused tears. He shoved the messy strands of hair that had fallen from her bun during sex out of her face. He kissed her dewy forehead and he whispered, "I'm in love with you, Nell. Don't go out to the bar with Teddy from Princeton. Come to dinner with me, and then come back to my house and eat popcorn and sit on my couch and watch a movie with me. And then lay in my bed with me and make love to me until we fall asleep tangled up with each other. And then wake up in the morning and take turns using my shower. And then ride to work with me in the morning. Will you do that, please?"

For too long of a moment, she didn't answer him, and Doug felt the ache of anger coming back over him again. But then, finally, Nell nodded against Doug, and she whispered gently, "Okay."


End file.
